Fire Emblem: The Dark Legacy
by Sundered Heart
Summary: When a mysterious force from the ancient days arises once more, former enemies must work together to defend the fabric of existence itself. Can this army of misfits put aside their enmity and discover the truth behind the threat they face? A SYOC story set in an original FE universe. Rated T for violence.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

The silence was broken by faint footsteps echoing across the hall.

Only illuminated by a sparse ring of burning braziers, the Mausoleum was one of the gloomiest places in the realm. Though many kings and heroes of old slumbered in gilt sarcophagi tucked away into the niches on the wall, the shadows that clung around every doorway gave a sense of dread rather than awe and respect. Only the central chamber, lit by an eerie beam of light shining through the glassy oculus in the domed ceiling, possessed any lasting illusion of safety and comfort. The floor of the chamber was decorated with an ornate mosaic of colored glass and obsidian, depicting a scene from the life of the current emperor's predecessor.

Like a ghost gliding across the air, the Oracle gently strode past the archway into the glimmering light.

For a brief moment, the Oracle stared up into the beam in silence. A mournful look on her beautiful face was gradually replaced by one of serenity reinforced by strong will. Taking a short breath, she redirected her gaze and scanned the chamber.

"There is no need for secrecy, my lords. We are all friends here," she called out in a soft voice.

"Are we indeed?" a low voice answered.

A figure emerged from behind one of the marble pillars that ringed the room, followed by another. Though they remained away from the light, the Oracle very well knew who they were.

"Lord General…and your Excellency the High Librarian. I am glad both of you could answer my summons in such a short notice," the Oracle bowed curtly.

"And I am beginning to wonder if I made a mistake," said the General. "Of all places…the Mausoleum? Hardly a place I want to find myself these days." The Oracle saw a pained look flashing across her colleague's face. "The presence of the dead brings back too many unpleasant memories. No doubt many of my good friends are buried here also."

"I'm sure milady had her reasons," muttered the High Librarian.

"Forgive me if our surrounding unsettles you, lord," said the Oracle. "There was very little choice in the matter. The Mausoleum is one of the few places in the realm where our ceremony may proceed undetected. I did not wish to leave any trails behind us."

The General shrugged. "We'd better get this over with quickly then. Have we all gathered?"

"I don't see the Lord Chancellor," said the High Librarian, peering into the shadows. "Shall I go back and look for him? This place can be a bit tricky to navigate."

"Don't bother," a tired voice issued from one of the archways. "I may have aged, but I do not yet have trouble finding my way down this wretched hole."

Despite a slight limp, the Lord Chancellor bore himself with great dignity. Though the oldest of the group, his piercing eyes spoke of great wisdom and strength that belied his appearance. With several slow strides, the Chancellor took his place in the gathering.

"Good to have you with us, your Excellency," the Oracle smiled. "Your contribution to our venture is greatly appreciated."

"Just don't let us down, far-seer. I would not have come here if your cause was anything but necessary. I hope the sacrifice we are all making will pay off," the Chancellor said.

"Quite so, lord. So then, seeing you are ready, let us begin."

The Oracle turned to face the rest of her companions, her expression now resolute and taut.

"I trust that all of us gathered here are aware of what we are about to do here tonight, and why it must be done. Not all of our friends share our sentiments towards the cause, unfortunately, and therefore have declined to join us. Thankfully, I believe that the power we have at our disposal between the four of us is still enough for the task at hand."

Three pairs of eyes watched her with rapt attention.

"As you all know," the Oracle continued. "His imperial majesty has issued a decree few nights ago, summoning the greatest magic-users across the realm to the capital. I am not in privy of his plans, but there is no doubt that the emperor is intending to attempt something drastic, potentially powerful enough to affect all of us. Assuredly, he will have the unconditional support of the High Council in this matter. Our foes are most tenacious, and will eventually overwhelm us if nothing is done."

"Whatever the purpose of the emperor's plan may be, I—along with you all—am still more alarmed by yet another imminent abuse of our God-given powers. We have been so liberal with magic for too long, and I fear that we are approaching closer to oblivion by meddling with forces we never deserved to have. I assure you, my lords, there will be consequences for this affront—dire consequences that will not bode well for any of us…unless we figure out what they are beforehand and prevent them from coming into fruition."

"Under any other circumstances, a simple Divination would've sufficed to predict the future," the Oracle's voice fell. "But ever since the war began, a thick veil had fallen across my inner vision, and I find my powers simply insufficient in piercing this new obscurity. No doubt our fall from the grace of Gods has to do with it, and this loss of foresight has since cost us dearly in the war against our foes."

"And that is why you solicited our aid, is it not?" the High Librarian asked. "So we can all pool in our powers and enable you to successfully perform a divination?"

"Precisely so," the Oracle nodded. "By linking our mana together, I believe we will have enough power between us at hand to penetrate the future. Furthermore, we are not simply planning here to foretell what will happen within the next few years. In order to properly understand the collective fate of our race, I will need to extend my vision to see _centuries_ ahead. No doubt, you all understand that the endeavor alone will require more effort than I alone can muster."

"We all run terrible risks just by being here," the General said gravely. "Not only has the ritual you speak of not been attempted before, but we are all defying the emperor's edicts by refusing to answer his summons. Not even our titles will protect us from repercussions after this is all over."

"Nevertheless, what must be done must be done," the High Librarian said firmly. "If none of us will care about the future of our race, then who will? Only the Divination will provide the answer to our continued survival."

A moment of silence uninterrupted by objections confirmed that the conspirators were of one mind.

"How have we come to this?!"

All turned to stare at the Chancellor. The usually reserved noble was suddenly trembling, anguish slowly marring his dignified features.

"For all the centuries we've lived, all the things we've been able to learn and master, we still haven't been able to deliver ourselves from damnation! Did our noble blood mean nothing to us? What madness had consumed us so that we would willingly debase ourselves in debauchery and neglect the common good? What makes us better than those beasts we are fighting, if not worse?"

The Chancellor's voice was so full of bitterness and sorrow that his companions could not help but wince at the surge of emotions creeping up their hearts. The General hung his head while the High Librarian stared off dejectedly into the distance. The Oracle, however, continued to lock her eyes with the Chancellor's.

"All is not lost, milord," she spoke in a soothing voice. "Despite our fall from grace, there is hope for our race. If we warn others with what we learn here tonight, then perhaps we could still make a difference! Maybe not a big one, but something we may use to start changing the way we've been living for such a long time."

The Chancellor remained silent for a moment before looking away.

"Let us do what we've come here to do, then," he said without emotion. "We do not have any more time to waste."

Without further word, the three nobles stepped off to the side while the Oracle stooped down and painstakingly began to draw a series of elaborate circles and runes around her with small pieces of chalk and charcoal. Under the Oracle's deft strokes, fantastic curves and shapes soon lined the whole floor like an elaborate labyrinth. The entire process took longer than usual without the assistance of the temple acolytes, but the quality of the work did not suffer one bit; centuries of experience had allowed the Oracle to hone her skills to perfection. When her work was finished, the General, the High Librarian, and the Chancellor all stepped onto the outermost circle of chalk in a way that they remained equidistant from each other. All of them faced inwards toward the Oracle who stood in the middle, each of them standing roughly twenty steps away from her. The Oracle finished her work by setting down an incense bowl next to her.

"Do you really understand the risk you're about to take?" the General asked with a grim look. "There is no guarantee you would return to us alive, should you exert yourself too much; and even if you do, there is so much that a mind can take—"

"I have long prepared myself for this very moment, lord. I am not afraid to lay down my life for the good of our people," the Oracle said firmly. Raising her arms above her head, the seeress first uttered a short prayer that seemed to put her more at ease. Then, she closed her eyes and stood very still. Though he had seen the Oracle summon her powers many times, the General could not help but become tense every time. He knew the Oracle was throwing herself into the infinite ocean of magic, where her soul was feeble and even a single unpredictable disturbance could shred her entire being into pieces. Even among their kind, the power she commanded was not fully understood and was often held in awe and fear.

Nothing happened at first, and the silence was only punctuated by the regular breathing of the four companions. The General found himself staring openly at the Oracle despite his attempts to avert his gaze. He had known her for many centuries and despite her intimidating status as a member of the sacred priesthood, there was…a fond feeling towards her that he could not deny. It was not the same lustful passion that had often seized him in his youth, but a simple desire to stay near her and bask in her reassuring presence. The general wasn't sure if the Oracle reciprocated that feeling though. If there was any reservoir of feminine desires she kept in check beneath her calm and peaceful demeanor, why would she want to settle for someone who had known nothing but violence for most of his life? And even if she did have feelings, was she willing to lay aside her sacred duty to spend the eternity with him? Sometimes, the General wondered whether his fondness for the Oracle—not the common concern for their people—was what drove him to pitch his support with this lot.

Caught up in his thoughts, the General realized almost too late that the Oracle had opened her eyes again. Those clear cerulean eyes, however, were now glazed in milky white fog. Her willowy body began to gently sway back and forth rhythmically; and with each movement a faint aura of white light began to gather around the Oracle. Her companions could feel a wave of static coursing through the air in the room. Having entered into a deep trance, the Oracle was now attempting to pierce the nigh immovable veil of fate beyond which lay the visions of the future.

"Ready," the General called out as he began to garner up the mana flowing inside him.

"Ready," the High Librarian and the Chancellor chorused as they did the same.

As one, the three nobles stretched forth their arms and redirected their powers inwards into the Oracle. Shimmering, translucent strands of light slowly snaked away from their fingers like smoke, and streaked into the seeress. The Chancellor's mana stream had a dark green hue, and each of the smoky tendrils seemed to pulsate with life. The General's own was golden and flowed like liquid, sparkling brightly where it caught the light from the braziers. The one coming from the High Librarian was a fainter, wispier vapor of bluish tinge. As three streams spiraled into the Oracle, the ghostly light around her began to flare brighter and threw off a few errant sparks that fell sizzling onto the stone floor. The Oracle's gently swaying correspondingly became more pronounced: her body was now rocking back and fro like a pendulum.

"How long are we to keep this up?" the High Librarian whispered out loud. "We can expend so much power before exhausting ourselves entirely."

"As long as it takes the Oracle to finish her job," the Chancellor snapped. "We stay until the Oracle wakes from her trance. Remember, we willingly committed ourselves to this. How much power this whole ritual needs, we must provide all we can."

The General remained silent, his eyes focused solely on the Oracle's rocking form. So far, the mana discharge has been negligible, and had barely put any strain on his magical reserves. If this was all it took to help her cause, the why would the Oracle bother to enlist three of the most potent magic wielders over everyone else? As his eyes began to wander, the General suddenly noticed that their streams of mana were slowly growing larger and flowing faster.

"Something is not—" the General began to speak.

Whatever he was about to say never left his mouth. With a loud _whoosh,_ the aura of light around the Oracle suddenly burst into a giant sphere of white fire that instantly consumed her. The explosion emanated a surge of magical backlash that sent the three conspirators staggering back. The High Librarian yelled out in alarm as the entire Mausoleum began to quake, shaking strands of dust from the ceiling. At the same time, mana began to drain from their bodies much faster than it was possible. Fueled by excess power, the sphere of fire began to expand outwards while emanating a loud, unearthly screech.

"Break off the link!" The General roared over the keening wail. "Stop this ritual at once!"

"I can't! My power is draining out of me by itself! I can't stop it!" the High Librarian wailed helplessly.

Indeed, the General found out that no matter how hard he tried, he could not stem the flow of mana rushing out of his body into the Oracle. His outstretched arms remained locked in place by an invisible force, while ethereal streams of energy shot of him like water gushing from a broken dam. The amount of magical energy fueling the light was…phenomenal. With each passing second, the sphere grew brighter and the otherworldly wail intensified until ears became numb.

But as the General fought to remain conscious despite becoming light-headed, he could hear another sound emanating from the brilliance, one that wasn't as loud but no less discernible. It was a heart-wrenching note that would've befuddled all, had the General not heard many of its kind often in the battlefield, each one so distinct yet so painful. It was a wail of utmost despair mixed with horror and sorrow, the signature call of those who had lost their loved ones in wars. But there was something about this particular cry that made him weep and despair as well, as if the sorrow was somehow personal to him. As first tears streaked down his sweaty face, the General realized that the cry was coming from none other than the Oracle herself. She was alive! His relief, however, dissipated as he realized the white fire showed no sign of stopping. At the rate it was growing, the whole sphere was going to consume all of them and perhaps this entire place. Stricken with dread, the General began to struggle with all his might. Through the brilliant light slowly creeping into his eyes, he could see his two colleagues likewise struggling, no doubt having reached the same conclusion.

Suddenly, it was all over. The sphere of fire disappeared as quickly it had come, leaving the magical link broken. The shrill scream abated as well, though it took quite some time for the numbed ears to register the sudden silence. Spent and dazed, the three nobles collapsed onto the floor gasping for breath. The High Librarian, possessing the least magical potential among them, doubled up and threw up violently. Painful nausea and cramps assaulted the General as he struggled to rise from the floor. He could not feel his legs, so he shakily propped himself up with his sore arms while blinking clear of the bright stars in his vision. The Chancellor was leaning against the pillar across the hall, breathing laboriously and staring straight ahead horrified. Following his gaze, the General saw the Oracle fallen where she had been standing, unmoving. The area where the sphere had occupied was nothing but a neat crater of molten rock and glass. The entire room was otherwise silent and peaceful, as if nothing had ever taken place there.

The General gritted his teeth and grunted in pain as he half-crawled-half-limped over to the seeress. The Divination had single-handedly left him utterly drained of his magical powers. He had not felt like this in a long time, not even in all the hard battles he had fought over the past years. Still, it did not matter to him; if the Oracle was dead, then their efforts made tonight would have been in vain. With couple steps, the General reached her and gently rolled the seeress over to her back. Her eyes were closed, and bloody tears had left dry crimson trails running down her pale cheeks. But she was still breathing, albeit faintly. The ritual had not claimed her soul.

"She lives!" the General gasped. Behind him, the High Librarian uttered a short prayer of thanks.

The Oracle's body trembled lightly—perhaps roused by his words—and her eyes slowly fell open. Flecked with blood and tears, the light in those cerulean orbs told of nothing but exhaustion, horror, and sorrow. The General gently cradled the Oracle's head in his arms, and clumsily shook several loose strands of hair out of her face.

"General…" the Oracle's words were like rustling dry leaves, and the usual calmness that shadowed her every word had all but disappeared.

"Rest easy now, lady." The General hushed. "The ritual is over. You're safe now, as we all are-"

"_I saw it, my lords…I saw the future."_

The silence hung heavily in the air as three nobles went rigid. For a brief moment, no one dared to speak as if a single utterance would collapse the precarious peace and bring down chaos upon their heads. The General stared down numbly at the Oracle, becoming too aware of the dryness in his mouth. From what they had all seen, it was clear that the prognostication was anything but optimistic.

"What did you see, Oracle?" the Chancellor managed to whisper at last, his eyes wide with fear. "_What did you see?"_

Before the darkness claimed her once more, the Oracle mustered the last of her strength and uttered the words that chilled her companions to their souls.

"_The end of all things…" _


	2. Introduction

**FE: The Dark Legacy—Background & Factions**

* * *

In the dawn of time, it is said that a pantheon of incredible beings only known as the Old Gods descended upon the young world of Ellendia.

Desiring to love and to be loved in return, the Old Gods pooled in their powers to create a race of the fairest beings after their own image. Blessed with the stream of _mana—_raw energy of life which fuels all magic—strongly coursing through their blood, the young race thrived under the tutelage of their benevolent gods who walked among them, quickly building a great empire across an entire continent. Anima Magic came to these creatures as easily as breathing air, with which they proceeded to freely mold Ellendia according to their tastes and desires.

They called themselves _valedorei_—"blessed ones" in their musical language.

The later generations would call them elves.

Enthralled by the power they held in their fingertips, the elves delved deeper and deeper into its potential, honing their mastery of raw mana to an unprecedented level that surprised even the Old Gods themselves. Small islands rose from the ocean at whim; entire forests grew up overnight; those who passed away after three thousand years of good life rose from the dead to live for another three thousand years. Even the strands of fate themselves were sullied, tampered extensively in order to grant the elves whatever lifestyles and destinies they craved. The power of magic was at its greatest height.

Slowly but surely, decadence and corruption grew roots in the hearts of many elves.

Possessing near immortality and limitless power, a great number of elves soon began devoting themselves to exploring every sensation there was to be found and had. Regardless of right or wrong, elves indulged in aberrant researches, most perverse acts imaginable, prolonged bouts of violence, or the most pointless obsessions—all for the mere novelty of it. The absence of restraint preceded the gradual moral decay of the empire. Though some wiser elves did abstain themselves from those pointless indulgences, the society as a whole had begun to lose its nobility.

The oldest elven texts say that the Gods became afraid of the awesome power their creations came to wield; others say that they were truly saddened and disappointed by how far the elves have fallen. Whatever the truth had been, all records nevertheless agree on one single fact: the Gods came to regret having created the elves….but out of great love they still had, they could not bear to destroy their wayward children with their own hands.

So, the Old Gods embarked on a course that would shake the history of Ellendia to its very core.

In another great feat of creation, the Gods _expanded_ Ellendia—which previously contained only its namesake continent—threefold, raising two new continents that closely bordered the elven empire from two sides: Xanadu in the east and Gondwana to the west. In those new lands, they seeded the beginnings of another race who would replace the elves as their favored agents.

These new species possessed neither the beauty nor grace inherent to the elves. Their magical potential was paltry, their lives laughably short, behaviors appallingly crude, and senses, imagination, and intelligence notably duller than those of their predecessors.

Unto this inauspicious race the Gods bestowed numerous blessings to ensure their survival. Their clumsy bodies bulged with muscles granting greater physical strength than elves; their shortened lives were compensated by great enthusiasm to breed and multiply at a faster rate; the brightest of individuals were taught the ability to wield two exclusive branches of magic—the Light Magic, which drew power from the mind, and the Dark Magic, which drew power from the soul—as well as the basic fundamentals of Anima magic. Finally, the Gods imbued the new race with an unquenchable desire to endure and conquer—a trait that would serve them well in the coming days.

And thus began the history of the human race.

Though lacking any sort of central alliance that bound them together as one political entity, humans advanced rapidly under the protection of their new patrons. Unlike their previous relationship with the elves, the Old Gods deliberately chose not to reveal themselves to their new charges. Instead, the Gods influenced the humans in subtle ways, via chance events and portentous dreams. Many humans in turn, never having known their secret creators, instead chose to worship the Light, a man-made religion driven by the twin tenets of virtue and justice. Within a few centuries, great kingdoms of men came to dominate the newly created continents of Xanadu and Gondwana.

As the Gods had intended, tensions quickly rose between humans and the empire of the elves. To the elder race, humans were crude, powerless savages who were little better than vermin; to men, the elven empire was the single greatest threat to their continued existence, realm of nightmarish beings who sought to dominate them and sweep what little accomplishments they had made clean from the annals of history. Though the men of Gondwana and their counterparts in Xanadu had never met face to face, the conclusion their leaders made in the end were one and the same.

In order to ensure their continued survival, the elves needed to be destroyed.

In what the later historians would call "The Crusade of Light," the vast armies of men invaded the elven realm from both east and west. From Gondwana came the chivalrous Neustrians led by their king Karmane the Lion, Maximin the Crimson Knight and his boisterous Teutonens, and the holy hosts of the Semnii guided by the venerable St. Pietrello. From Xanadu came the great armies of Sultan Ibrahim Al-Kharym, and the Vrakian long-ships bearing savage barbarians under the banner of their chieftain Alaric. Each of these brave warlords wielded weapons of incredible might, secretly gifted to them by the Gods to counter the legendary weapons that the Elves owned themselves.

Without the favor of the Gods, the elves could not wield the magical spells of overwhelming magnitude nor freely tamper with the strands of fate as they had done before. Nevertheless, the sorceries of the elder race were still terrifying to behold. Despite gaining foothold in the edges of the Elven Empire, countless humans perished under barrages of fire, thunder, wind, and ice that tore apart entire regiments. Forests became deathtraps where men were quickly massacred by deadly ambushes. Even in open battles, elven agility and martial skills honed for millennia reaped gruesome tallies and struck fear into the hearts of the mortals. Despite the difficulties, however, humans continued to fight on with unmovable stubbornness and ferocity. What magic and speed they could not match were countered with brute strength and sheer numbers. With the favor of Gods behind their backs, there was no breaking the grim determination that burned in their hearts.

Slowly but surely, the elves were forced back, unable to dislodge the human invaders from their territories. For every elf that fell in battle, the humans had hundreds of more soldiers to spare. With a significantly slower birth rate, the elves could not afford to replace their losses as easily and rapidly as their foes. The situation became even direr once the men of Gondwana and Xanadu made contact with each other and began coordinating their war efforts. Human and elven hosts clashed in every corner of Ellendia, fighting great battles that became immortalized in majestic paintings and ballads; heroes from both sides rose and fell, leaving behind scores of superhuman feats that defied description. With both elves and men concentrating their fullest efforts into the conflict, the crusade eventually crawled into a long war of attrition whose foreseeable outcome was evident to all.

In a last desperate effort to turn the tide of war, the elven emperor Tyranius II gathered around him a cadre of his most powerful sorcerers. In the grandest of all temples, they began to weave a powerful spell that would greatly amplify their ability to tap into the mana stream and grant the elves even stronger magical powers. For an unknown reason, however, something went terribly awry. The spell quickly spiraled out of control, resulting in a cataclysmic magical backlash that not only wiped out all the elves in the vicinity but also violently reshaped the geography of this world. The gap between Ellendia and Gondwana widened, separating the two continents with an ocean that constantly churned with violent storms. The stretch of plains connecting Xanadu and Ellendia, meanwhile, was reduced into a vast, inhospitable desert that made the passage between two continents nearly impossible. As for Ellendia itself, the once glorious empire of the elves was pulled apart into two separate landmasses, leaving a great sea in the middle where the epicenter of the backlash had originated. Untold number of men and elves perished in this great upheaval.

Though both sides did manage to restore order in their ranks and continue the war, the conflict was no longer a near stalemate as it had once been. Though the humans had suffered grievous losses, the damage done to the elven populace was an irrecoverable blow. Having lost their leadership caste in the initial cataclysm, the elder race lost all momentum and cohesion that kept them committed in the war. Within a few more years, the final human victory in the heartland of the elven empire marked the end of the crusade. The elves were finally vanquished, their cities and armies broken asunder. The great majority of the elves were wiped out, while the rest were brought into captivity or fled into the most remote corners of the world where no one would find them.

And so came to a close the sorrowful course that the Old Gods had chosen to pursue. With the humans having fulfilled their roles, the broken-hearted Old Gods then departed from Ellendia forever, never to walk among their children again. The presence of their benevolence vanished from the world, leaving its inhabitants free to pursue their own destinies.

Amidst the ruins of a shattered continent, the humans sought to come to grips with their victory that had come at such a steep price. Countless lives had been lost in the war and in the magical cataclysm that followed; the most terrible of which was the untimely death of the Teutonen leader Maximin, who fell in a battle against the elven host, and the mysterious disappearance of Alaric, the chieftain of the Vrakians. Still, even those losses were overshadowed by the fact that the humans now had no way to return to their respective homelands. The unnatural tempests defied every attempt at oceanic voyage back to Gondwana, while the desert passage back to Xanadu was perilous at best. Determined to make the best of the situation nevertheless, the three remaining human leaders decided to settle their people across the two continents that once constituted Ellendia.

King Karmane and his Neustrians settled in the fertile northern half of the western landmass and founded the prosperous Kingdom of Elbion. Ruled by a line of proud and warlike kings, Elbion quickly became one of the foremost military powers in Ellendia.

After Maximin's death, the Teutonens lost any semblance of central leadership that bound them as one. Instead of forming a single political entity, Maximin's chief lieutenants carved for themselves a number of semi-independent counties in the southern half of the western continent. The six counties that were subsequently established became known as the Reikmar Federation.

Sultan Ibrahim Al-Kharym, who had become Karmane's bitter rival during the war, led his people into the southeastern region of the eastern continent, a vast stretch of land that encompassed jagged mountains, grassy plains, and barren canyons. The disparate tribes that settled across the varied landscape formed the Bosphorian Empire, whose famed merchant caravans often ventured into the great desert to the east in an effort to reach their lost home in Xanadu.

With the mysterious disappearance of their charismatic chieftain, the Vrakians were not able to assert an effective claim on the more fertile regions of Ellendia. Thus, the hardy barbarians were forcibly relegated to the northernmost reaches of the eastern continent—a barely inhabitable frozen wasteland separated from the rest of the landmass by the great Forest of Shadows. The Vrakians nevertheless accepted their share begrudgingly, naming their harsh new home Zerakon.

The ownership of the central eastern continent—the former seat of the elven realm—proved more difficult to settle. The residual energies of ancient elven magic lingered across the woodland, bathing the region in an eerie aura that unnerved the humans. With horrible memories of elven magical assaults still fresh in their minds, no men—even the Vrakians, despite their unfair share—were willing to settle there. The dilemma was ultimately resolved by Magister Aldois, King Karmane's chief advisor and court warlock. With a host of Neustrians and Teutonens whom he swayed to his cause, Aldois proceeded to establish the Kingdom of Glamorgan amongst the elven ruins. While ostensibly claiming to work on cleansing the magical taint from the land, it was clear to all that Aldois had set up an effective buffer zone friendly to his former liege and inimical to the territorial ambitions of the Bosphorian Empire to the south.

For St. Pietrello and the Semnii, the largest archipelago and its surrounding islands out in the center of the Great Sea seemed most ideal. As the spiritual leader of the crusade and the least belligerent of the warlords, the Saint and his senior clerics founded the Holy Church of the Light as the governing religious body over most of Ellendia. His people, meanwhile, settled themselves across the islands to become skilled mariners and shrewd merchants who dominated the maritime trade. The resulting Republic of Ispellia would come to serve as a political mediator between different nations of Ellendia.

Having divided up the lands amongst themselves, men began to concentrate their efforts into establishing a new world order. In a thousand years that followed, each of the nations developed unique cultural identities that were more than often determined by the geography of their homelands. Despite the burgeoning international trade, conflicts and wars inevitably arose between men. The ancient alliance that bonded them against the elves was all but forgotten, even as the Crusade of Light became regarded more and more like a fairytale rather than history. Knowledge about their lost homelands Gondwana and Xanadu, too, faded away, though Bosphorian caravans would regularly return from their forays into the desert with fantastic tales of the east. For the later generations of men, Ellendia was the entirety of the world as they knew it.

The only thing that constantly reminded them of their ancient endeavors was an unintended legacy left behind by the semi-mythical elves.

* * *

During the days of the crusade, the invading humans were equally horrified and fascinated by the magical powers the elves wielded. Though men were exclusively privy to the Light and the Dark magic, the elves' abilities to manipulate Anima magic simply surpassed the greatest human efforts. While men needed to channel their spells using magic tomes and lengthy spells, the elder race could instantly conjure up devastating enchantments of fire, thunder, wind, and ice at will without breaking a sweat. Some humans denounced them as monsters, but more became enamored by the wild idea of perhaps obtaining the same ability for themselves, or at least harnessing such skills in service of their respective nations.

In the earliest years after the end of the crusade, therefore, many human leaders, scholars, and sorcerers began to devote their attention to a number of elves they held in captivity in order to analyze their magical powers. Effective communication with their prisoners was difficult, however; after the fall of their empire, the elven captives generally fell into a state of depressed semi-lethargy and deterioration, neither cooperating nor resisting their captors with any sort of enthusiasm. Most elves even began to physically waste away, only to die in a matter of years. The human overlords desperately cajoled, bribed, threatened, and abused the dwindling stock of elves in an effort to win their allegiances, talents, and secrets. Even open autopsies and magical experiments wielded few results. A race was started between Elbion, Reikamar, and Bosphoria—the only nations to possess a sizeable number of elven prisoners—to obtain the secrets of magical supremacy.

After about a hundred years into the research, a major breakthrough was achieved in the Kingdom of Elbion.

One of the royal sorcerers involved in the project had begun to mate a number of elven prisoners with humans out of curiosity and amusement. To his utmost surprise, both elven and human female subjects fell pregnant, and eventually gave birth to healthy infants whose likeness was never seen before. Though closely resembling humans in appearance, the half-breed offspring possessed pupils seemingly filled with a whirlpool of ethereal currents. But more importantly, the children at early age began to display the similar magical abilities inherent in elves, albeit at a reduced magnitude. Their aptitudes in controlling elements were less potent than those of the elves, and each individual only possessed mastery over a single element: fire, thunder, wind, or ice. Still, using Anima magic was like developing muscles to these children, becoming more adept at controlling their powers the more they used it. Further experiments and observations over the course of many years proved that these new creatures—dubbed Halflings—were no mere half-breeds. Their sexual unions with humans, elves, and others of their kind always resulted in offspring with uniformly consistent features of the new race. Nor did these different unions affect their inherent aptitudes in magic: children born from human-elf, human-halfling, halfling-halfling or elf-halfling parents would all start off with more or less the same potential, except for a small pool of more gifted individuals that occurred in every population.

Without ever meaning to, the mankind had created an entirely new species.

Although Halflings were not quite the results the researchers had been hoping for, the kings of Elbion were quick to see the advantage in these half-breeds. Not only were the Halflings' magical abilities still quite superior to those of men, their human-like minds and personalities were also more malleable and receptive to strong indoctrinations. Even the rapidly depleting stock of captive elves was not a problem. By maintaining a sizeable recruiting pool of Halflings, men could periodically draw from it a small cadre of powerful magic-wielders to serve humanity in future wars. As a precaution against possible dissension, however, those Halflings who actually fought in battles would be taught to restrain a portion their magic talents. The rest of the recruiting pool, meanwhile, were mostly forbidden to use magic at all and doubled as a servile labor force to serve the burgeoning kingdom.

This new model quickly spread to Reikmar and Bosphoria, albeit some variations, leading to a sort of arms race between nations. For centuries, Halflings would serve their human masters with dedication and unfailing obedience. Though not as strong as men or as magically talented as elves, their common progenies acquitted themselves well in military conflicts, displaying creativity and deadly combination of arms and magic that often carried the day. Still, it was the Kingdom of Elbion that retained the strongest contingent of Halflings. At the eve of a thousand years after the end of the crusade, an elite regiment of four hundred Halfling mage-knights served Elbion, while five thousand more of their kin toiled in the kingdom's massive plantations that fueled the kingdom's military might.

Despite their contribution, the Halflings of Elbion never received fair treatment as equal citizens of the kingdom. Even their warriors were reviled, feared, and scorned, seen more as obedient beasts of war than comrades in arms. Any efforts to foster autonomy and distinct cultural awareness were brutally suppressed. Their war efforts were often unappreciated, while Halflings commoners were treated as mindless animals. Such a description was hardly fair, of course; despite the backbreaking oppression and mistreatment, some sense of common identity and resentment of their current conditions took root in many Halflings. Some escaped the plantations to form secret resistance cells, while others took time to ruminate on their heritage and dream of a different future. Despite centuries of servitude, sense of hope and self-respect still lingered amongst the Halflings.

In the early summer of year 1012, the collective fate of the Halflings final took a dramatic turn. Renouncing their long-standing allegiance to Elbion, the mage-knights rose up in an armed rebellion, taking advantage of the kingdom's distraction with yet another war with the Reikmar Federation. Aided by the resistance, the mage-knights then successfully freed their brethren from the plantations, defeating several army detachments sent out to deter them. With their ranks swelled by individuals determined to attain freedom, the Halfling makeshift army became a visible threat that threatened to destabilize Elbion's war efforts. Unfortunately, Halflings did not possess enough expertise in conducting prolonged warfare or enough supplies to sustain them indefinitely. With more elements of the Elbion army redirected from the front lines, the rebels soon found themselves cornered and on the brink of annihilation. In a desperate gambit, however, the battered army of Halflings miraculously managed to evade their pursuers and flee into the open sea in small fleet of hijacked ships. Having left all the traces of their previous servitude behind, the rebels now sought to find a new land they could safely claim as their own.

After months of sailing across the Great Sea, Halfling refugees eventually found themselves arriving on the western shores of Glamorgan. Hostile reception they had expected, to their surprise, was non-existent. With the death of the childless king years ago, the entire realm of Glamorgan had in fact been locked in a long civil war between two rival factions. Adroitly exploiting the political interests of both claimants to the throne—and passing themselves off as harmless group of refugees—the Halflings eventually managed to settle themselves in a remote and overlooked forest in the southern corner of Glamorgan. There, amongst the forgotten ancient elven ruins that still housed hidden lore and artifacts, the wayward refugees learned much about the glorious achievements and legacies of their mysterious ancestors. With a newfound pride and identity as the heirs of the elves, the Halflings discarded their crude man-made names and rechristened themselves the _Silvanii_—"children of magic" in ancient elven tongue. With new identity came a fresh resolve that bound the Silvanii as one: for the sake of their future prosperity and to reclaim their rightful inheritance, the ancient seat of the elven kingdom needed to be reclaimed.

Bolstered by more Silvanii making their way en masse from Reikmar and Bosphoria, the newly established realm of the Silvanii slowly began to conquer the rest of Glamorgan, taking advantage of the internal division brought on by civil strife. Their efforts in turn were supported by none other than the Bosphorians, who were eager to dismantle a neighboring state so friendly to their rival across the sea. The conflicting factions for the Glamorgan throne united too late against their common enemy. Though smaller in number, the Silvan warriors had gained much experience in warfare by then and could exploit their magical talents to the fullest potential. Supplied and aided by the Bosphorians, the Silvanii finally defeated the lords of Glamorgan after several years of vicious fighting. While the majority of the human peasant populace came under the rule of their new Silvan overlords, the remnants of the Glamorgan aristocracy fled to a tiny parcel of land to the north near the Forest of Shadows along with their followers. This rump state became known as the Principality of Glamorgan—an insignificant nation that the Silvanii only tolerated for their usefulness as a buffer zone against the Zeracon barbarians.

The struggles of the Silvanii were far from over, however. Alarmed by the fall of Glamorgan and the perceived ascendency of the half-elves, the rulers of Elbion and the Reikmar Federation launched a massive invasion across the sea in order to overthrow the nascent nation. Against the vast armies of the west, even the powerful sorcery of the Silvanii did not seem enough. A great portion of their new realm was devastated and the casualties mounted high. Still, against all odds, the Silvanii endured and were able to drive the invaders away in the end. Bloodied and spent, the final victory against their former masters was finally at hand. Thus from this terrible crucible of war, the Silvan Republic of Arretium was born.

Over the next five hundred years, a tentative peace was settled between the participants of the war, though hostility was never fully extinguished. Arretium closed its borders tightly against the nations of the west, only maintaining limited trade with the Bosphorian Empire and Zeracon. With their boundaries secure and armies vigilant against potential invaders, the Silvanii was free to build up their civilization, achieving some impressive breakthroughs in technology and science—though none ever attained the former brilliance of the ancient elven empire. Elbion and the Reikmar Federation fell back into their usual squabbling in time, though their secret fear of the Silvanii constantly hung over the public consciousness. In the course of five centuries, only very few outsiders have set foot in the mysterious Republic of Arretium. And so, with a precarious balance of power came a period of relative peace that the world of Ellendia had not witnessed for the longest time.

But now, that long peace is about to come to an end….

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**Major Factions:**

_**The Kingdom of Elbion**_

**Description: **

Founded by Karmane the Lion and his Neustrians at the end of the Crusade, the Kingdom of Elbion has since then prospered into one of the major powers in Ellendia. It is the second largest realm after the Bosphorian Empire, its fertile soil and bountiful resources able to support a sizable population and a strong army. It is the land of undulating plains, robust towns, pristine forests, and rolling countryside, though its fortress-like cities are rather few in number. The city of Sossone serves as the royal capital, from where the kings of Elbion can conduct their royal duties. The harbor towns along the eastern coastline facilitate trade and commerce with the rest of Ellendia.

The kingdom boasts a distinguished martial history, its Neustrian founders being fierce warriors to begin with. The reputation of Elbion cavalry is exceptionally renowned, especially its heavy Knights who are almost exclusively drawn from the cream of high nobility. Supported by masses of reliable infantry, these heavy horsemen form the elite fighting force of the Elbion military; indeed, massed cavalry charge is one of its favored tactics used by Elbion generals to break the enemy ranks.

Geographically, Elbion occupies the northern half of the western continent, above the counties of the Reikmar Federation. Possessing political unity that its southern neighbor lacks, the kingdom has waged several successful wars against the fractious federation in the past centuries, making the relationship between two nations frosty at best. Elbion also harbors a rivalry with the Bosphorian Empire, while regarding the mysterious Republic of Arretium with dread and horror.

**People & Culture: **

Despite the overall affluence of the kingdom, Elbion at its core is a feudalistic society where social mobility is very difficult to achieve. As such, the peasants who make up much of the kingdom's populace actually live in poverty, while the nobility and the royal family possess virtually all of the national wealth. The middle class, while influential, is not large enough in Elbion to even out the wealth gap. While the distinction is thinner between wealthier bourgeois and the minor nobility, the upper class rarely associates itself with the common people and generally regards them with contempt and disinterest. The national government is an absolute monarchy, with much of the political power concentrated in the hands of the king.

Despite the social inequality, the Elbinese in general are very proud and courageous people who aren't afraid to speak their minds if allowed to do so. They are very capable of achieving great feats of heroism if properly led. Though most citizens lead grim and difficult lives, they are still quick to take pleasure in even the smallest things in life, such as a mug of good beer or an uplifting speech. Their faith in the Light is also strong, compelling many aristocratic children to aspire for high positions within the clergy. While somewhat slow to accept change and abandon old ideas, the nigh unbreakable endurance and enthusiastic focus that drives the people has made the kingdom very capable in both international politics and warfare.

**Military Strengths & Weaknesses: **

Excellent Cavalry & Decent Infantry

Over-reliant on cavalry and sometimes lacks tactical flexibility

**Real-world influences/archetype:** Late Medieval France & England

**Divine Weapon:** Joyeuse, the Lion Sword

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_**The Reikmar Federation**_

**Description: **

The untimely death of Maximin the Crimson Knight during the Crusade gave birth to a bitter feud between his chief lieutenants who eventually founded the Reikmar Federation. Despite nominally allied to one another, the various counties that make up the federation are extremely prone to internecine warfare, preventing any chances of uniting against their powerful northern neighbor, the Kingdom of Elbion. Even the common lineage of their people does little, each man pledging his loyalty to his respective home county rather than the federation as a whole. The terrain of the counties is similar to that of Elbion, though untamed forests tend to be somewhat thicker and more prevalent. There are, however, more cities in Reikmar than there is in Elbion, all of them well connected to international trade.

The counties of Reikmar maintain a capable military that favors more balance between cavalry and infantry. The most famous fighting forces of all, however, are the Pegasus Corps that provides excellent aerial forces to the services of the counts. Nevertheless, the combined population of the federation is still slightly less than that of its chief rival Elbion, making the political division an even less pragmatic idea than anyone would ever realize. Many military theorists believe that should the counties of Reikmar unite under one banner, the resulting military coalition would be able to match the armies of Elbion quite effectively.

Located in the southern half of the western continent, the Reikmar Federation is somewhat smaller in size than that of Elbion—though its internal division renders the individual counties even smaller. There are six counties in total, each ruled over by its own count: Wallenburg, Zakenstad, Astorheim, Ustrava, Streizen, and Hrelvaros

**People & Culture: **

While sharing some similar physical traits with their northern neighbors, the people of Reikmar in comparison are more liberal and receptive to new ideas. Social mobility is more fluid as well, resulting in a larger number of urban burghers. Regional pride, however, is a strong divisive factor which can sometimes result in a strong, unreasonable display of xenophobia and intense in-group favoritism amongst the people. Indeed, many Reikamar citizens actually consider the neighboring counties to be even more dangerous enemies than the Kingdom of Elbion.

**Military Strengths & Weaknesses: **

Balanced-all-around, with excellent flyers

Political division hampers effective military planning and centralized command

**Real-world influences/archetype:** The Holy Roman Empire and its neighbors

(Late Medieval Germans (Wallenburg), Swiss (Astorheim), Dutch (Zakenstad), Austrians (Streizen), Czechs (Ustrava), and Hungarians (Hrelvaros))

**Divine Weapon:** Ascalon, the Crimson Lance

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_**The Republic of Ispellia**_

**Description: **

Founded on the largest archipelago in the middle of the Great Sea, the serene Republic of Ispellia is the legacy of Saint Pietrello—the first patriarch of the Church of the Light—and his Semnii followers. Unlike other nations of Ellendia, Ispellia does not concern itself with military ventures but instead focuses on maritime trade. Despite having to contend with pirates infesting the lawless islands nearby, the trade route that links the western continent with the east has made the republic immensely wealthy. Ispellia also serves as a neutral ground and an international hub where merchants and diplomats from all over the world can negotiate openly.

Though not as large in size as other nations, Ispellia is still decently populated, aided by its wealth and delectably warm climate all year around. Its tropical islands are home to beautiful cities brimming with enlightened people who value novel ideas and artistic achievements. Ispellian navy is perhaps the best in the world, crewed by experienced seamen who have spent their whole lives navigating through treacherous waters. Being protected by the sea, the republic does not possess a large standing army; instead, the merchant-princes who rule the republic maintain and equip their own cadre of mercenaries—many of them Zerakon barbarians—to protect their commercial interests. Still, Ispellia does boast a fine tradition of swordsmanship, and has given birth to some of the most skillful Duelists and Champions in the world.

Although the cities of Ispellia are ruled over by a council of merchant-princes, the ultimate authority lies within the Church of the Light, which maintains its greatest cathedral in one of the islands. Though typically interfering very little in secular matters, the Church has considerable sway over Ispellia's overall international policy and religious doctrine.

**People & Culture: **

Somewhat swarthy compared to men of the west, typical Ispellians are cheerful, talkative, laid-back lovers of life who like nothing better than fine food, expensive clothes, pleasant music, and beautiful men/women. Due to the republic's wealth, the Ispellians also pride themselves in being cultured people and thereby devote much time into arts and sciences as well as international exploration. Their fashion and cuisine are legendary, and the latest trends in Ispellia are eagerly emulated by many nobles and royalties abroad. Nevertheless, do not mistake the easygoing nature of Ispellians for laziness! Only very few things are more dangerous than a pissed-off Ispellian, and too many unfortunate souls have been victims of these fiery-tempered men and women who are quite deadly with blades.

**Military Strengths & Weaknesses: **

Excellent navy & capable swordsmen infantry, with Light Magic support

Very reliant on foreign mercenaries & army size is relatively small

**Real-world influences/archetype:** Late Medieval Italy & Spain

**Divine Weapon:** Corona, the Blinding Light

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_**Zerakon**_

**Description: **

The unexplained disappearance of Chieftain Alaric near the end of the crusade had a lasting impact for the future of his followers. Though Alaric's contributions to the war were considerable, his rival warlords of the crusade were quick to label him as a deserter and automatically discredit the Vrakians. Already ostracized for their barbaric behaviors, the Vrakians ultimately became sidelined during the subsequent division of land, only to be "rewarded" with the inhospitable land of Zerakon. Deeply embittered by this treatment, the Vrakian barbarians vowed never to forget the insult and to forever plague the realms of their so-called "allies."

Occupying the northern reaches of the eastern continent that stretches up into the polar region, Zerakon is a desolate wasteland perpetually covered in snow and ice. Only its southwestern regions by the shoreline can support some population, though even the existence there is still harsh and unforgiving. Small patches of dark forests provide the tribesmen with much needed food and lumber, while frozen mountain peaks that dot the landscape conceal ancient secrets that most men are content not to disturb.

Instead of a united political entity, Zerakon is instead inhabited by a number of savage tribes who constantly fight each other for limited resources. While some bigger tribes may emerge from time to time, the natural perils of the land ensure that the supremacy is short-lived. Each of the tribes is led by a powerful chieftain who surrounds himself with the strongest warriors.

**People & Culture: **

Toughened by the unforgiving environment of their home, the Zerakonians are generally dour, harsh, practical, and extremely down-to-earth. Tall and broad with blonde or red hair, the tribesmen are scorned by other nations as savage barbarians who are little better than animals. The Zerakonians, in turn, are contemptuous of their more "civilized" neighbors for being soft and decadent. Regardless, the tribes of Zerakon are renowned for their tenacious loyalty to their friends/employers and their utmost emphasis on honor and promises. Strength in arms is the sole deciding factor in determining the social status of an individual, and raiding and war are ways of life to these people.

Driven by scarcity of resources, Zerakonians alternately trade with and pillage their wealthier neighbors. Their hallmark long-ships are dreaded sights in coastal communities all across the world, their feral crewmen even more so. Some brazen tribesmen are even known to probe the shorelines of Arretium from time to time, though most of their ventures end up in abject failure. Though mostly on foot, the tribal warriors of Zerakon fight with berserk fury that strikes fear into more well-equipped armies. These barbaric warriors are even more renowned as universal mercenaries who ply their trade in all armies. Dozens of mercenary companies are available for contract in Zerakon at any moment, and most are not above fighting against other Zerakon mercenaries for extra pay. Naturally, the Zerakonians' penchant for mercenary work and seamanship brings them into rivalry with the Ispellians, many of whom are also skilled sailors and opportunistic mercenaries.

**Military Strengths & Weaknesses: **

Powerful Infantry

Very lacking in all other branches of military

**Real-world influences/archetype:** Viking Scandinavia

**Divine Weapon:** Levatin, the Sundering Axe (Currently lost along with Alaric)

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_**The Republic of Arretium**_

**Description:**

Founded by the Silvan refugees fleeing their servitude in the west, the Republic of Arretium is a nation born from fierce conflicts. The history of their old struggles is taught in every school, and all citizens are constantly reminded of the value of their civic duty to the country. The national security still remains elusive, however. Having fought against Elbion, Reikmar, and Glamorgan in the past, Arretium must also contend with possible Zerakon raids and incursions from the Forest of Shadows to the north. As such, the republic maintains several legions that are posted across the borders to repel future incursions. In addition, every able-bodied civilian—men and women, human or Silvan—must serve at least two to three years in the military at some point in their lives. Diplomatic isolation is a distinct disadvantage for the republic, and even its trade "partners" Bosphoria and Zerakon cannot be counted as true allies. Only through constant vigilance can Arretium maintain its peace and might.

Geographically, the Republic of Arretium occupies the central portion of the eastern continent, above the Bosphorian Empire and below the Forest of Shadows. Once covered with thick forests, much of the woodland had since been cleared away over the past centuries to provide its people with verdant fields. Many cities dot the landscape amidst peaceful farming communities, serving as centers of trade as well as learning. While smaller than Elbion or Bosphoria, Arretium is well populated for its size, ensuring a stable flow of manpower for large scale projects or military ventures. Most recently, the expeditionary force of three legions have been deployed to the most eastern reaches of the republic to subdue the wild mountain tribes living there and secure the rich nodes of iron located throughout the foothills.

The Republic of Arretium is perhaps the most technologically advanced faction in all of Ellendia. Magic is actively applied in many aspects of daily life, from farming and crafting to engineering and blacksmithing. Trees can be felled quickly with magical blasts, and steel forged with sorcerous fires produce superior weapons and armor. Vigorous exchange of ideas and innovative researches have also resulted in marvelous "inventions" exclusive to Arretium, including telescopes and mana-powered orbs that allow long-range communication. On the whole, however, even these accomplishments are considered nothing more than inferior reverse-engineered products of ancient elven designs that are rediscovered from time to time.

Can you say…"firepower?" Unlike other nations, the Arretium military can recruit thousands of readily-available spell-casters from the Silvan populace, unleashing a nigh-continuous barrage of magic onto its unsuspecting enemies. Though deficient in cavalry and flyers, the amount of destruction it can dish out more than makes for the shortcoming. With well-disciplined Legionaries and mighty Templars to protect the sorcerers from harm, the armies of the republic are some of the finest fighting forces in Ellendia. While humans can rise to become field officers, the upper echelon of the general staff is almost exclusively comprised of the Silvanii.

The political structure of the republic is more democratic than most, even more so than the so-called "Republic" of Ispellia where merchant-princes hold exclusive sway over the nation. Governing body of Arretium is the council of senators elected by the citizenry, and each of the decision made must be put to a vote among them. For all its idealism, however, political corruption is still ubiquitous. Nepotism via patronage is prevalent, as is inequality that prevents humans from attaining high office in the government. The political discontent has paved way for several ambitious men who have garnered crowds of supporters who are more loyal to them rather than to the state.

**People & Culture: **

The citizens of Arretium can be divided into two distinct groups: the Silvanii descendants of the original refugees, and the human descendants of old Glamorgan who were placed under the rule of the republic following the conquest centuries earlier. The ratio between the two groups is roughly around four to six, with the Silvanii mainly living in the cities while humans populate the countryside. While protected and treated equally under the same law, the human citizens of Arretium do face a glass ceiling in terms of how much they can achieve in society, especially in politics or business. Nevertheless, the patriotism that binds the citizenry is strong, and both humans and the Silvanii alike readily express great pride in being a member of an enlightened and advanced society governed by principles and ideals.

Unlike most other nations, Arretium is largely driven by meritocracy rather than the merit of birth. As such, its citizens are not afraid to express themselves freely and explore new ideas and concepts. At the same time, the reverence for the elves and their ancient achievements is strong amongst the Silvanii, prompting them to try and emulate their feats in any way they can—including learning the elven language or trying to replicate ancient technologies. The admiration for the elves can conversely breed utter contempt for humans living outside of Arretium that more or less extends towards the human citizens of the republic. Still, the centuries of isolation had left the Arretines with very little knowledge of the outside world, and many are eager to venture outside the borders of the republic if given chance.

**Military Strengths & Weaknesses: **

Top-notch Infantry and Mages & superior technology

Limited cavalry & almost non-existent flyers

**Real-world influences/archetype:** Ancient Greece & Rome

**Divine Weapon:** Percuna, the Roaring Thunder

Ouroboros, the Consuming Darkness (taken from Glamorgan)

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_**The Bosphorian Empire**_

**Description:**

The Bosphorian Empire is in reality a conglomeration of different tribes whose common allegiance to the Sultan binds them as one nation. From the jagged peaks of Zagros Mountains to the grassy flats of the southern plains, many people live in harmony despite their varied lifestyles and customs. The disparate cultures and vast territory inevitably lead to a diminished direct authority of the central government, its provinces instead controlled by the _satraps _or the regional chieftains appointed by the Sultan. Though not the most technologically advanced people, there is quiet strength and resilience in every Bosphorians that are not to be taken lightly.

The Bosphorian Empire possesses the largest territory among the nations in Ellendia. Its geography is varied, boasting barren canyons, mountains, grassy plains, river deltas, and deserts in its vast realm. The fertile farmlands in the central region supports a sizeable population that dwarfs even that of Elbion, while the precarious trade route across the desert to Xanadu brings in a fabulous wealth that is the envy of the world. While maintaining a rivalry with the Kingdom of Elbion across the sea, the Empire at large is not too eager to press its dominance in the international stage, only intervening in wars when the power balance between nations is threatened. From its ancient support of Arretium, the Empire is also one of the two realms who maintain some trade with the Silvans, the other being the Zeracons.

The presence of different peoples also allows great diversity in the way Bosphorians wage war. A great number of its infantry are levied conscripts, who are equipped with nothing better than cloth armor with wicker shields and simple spears. These foot soldiers number in the tens of thousands, however, and will gladly throw down their lives to achieve victory through sheer weight of numbers. The Empire does boast powerful armored Cataphract cavalry who are easily a match for the western Knights, and a large number of deadly Outriders recruited from nomadic tribes in the southern plains. Especially potent are the Griffin Riders of the Zagros Mountains, who provide the Sultan's army with capable aerial shock troops.

**People & Culture: **

Having comprised of different people, Bosphorians are not uniform in complexion and appearance. They do however possess a pleasantly mellifluous, song-like accent and gentle tone that belies their inner strength and skill at arms. Gracious hosts and loyal friends, the Bosphorians in general are very hospitable and tries to abstain from unnecessary violence. They possess a rich heritage of art, music, philosophy, and literature that arise from the mixture of many different cultures, and their medical knowledge and healing techniques brought back from the distant realm of Xanadu are simply unmatched. But anyone who besmirches their honor or betrays their trust will find no worst enemy than the Bosphorians. Bosphorians are also identified by their collective desire to migrate back to their lost homeland one day. Though centuries have passed since their settlement in Ellendia, the nostalgia for Xanadu has persisted amongst the populace through stories and traditions. Many adventurous people join the caravans traversing the perilous route through the desert, and finding a safer route back East that will allow large-scale movement have been obsessions of Bosphorian explorer-scholars for decades.

**Military Strengths & Weaknesses: **

Excellent Cavalry, Horse Archers, and Flyers

Infantry poor in quality and discipline, relying on sheer numbers

**Real-world influences/archetype:** Ancient Persia & Ottoman Turks

**Divine Weapon:** Simurgh, the Unerring Bow

* * *

_**The Principality of Glamorgan**_

**Description: **

Once a prosperous kingdom that ruled over the central woodlands of the eastern continent, Glamorgan's decline came at the death of its last king which sparked an intense civil war between two rival claimants to the throne. Occupied with their petty grudges, the lords of Glamorgan gave very little thought to a seemingly insignificant band of Halflings who sought refuge in the abandoned corner of the kingdom. With the subsequent establishment of the Silvan realm to the south, the rival factions soon found themselves joined by a powerful common foe, but ultimately united too late to make a difference. Their armies utterly destroyed by magical assaults, the surviving aristocrats of Glamorgan and their most loyal subjects were forced to flee into the nearly barren northeastern reaches of the kingdom. Wedged in by Zeracon to the north, Arretium to the south, the Forest of Shadows to the west, and a mercilessly frigid ocean to the east, the refugees found themselves condemned to a harsh lifestyle that was forever occupied by struggles for survival. Though still maintaining alliances with the western realms, especially the Kingdom of Elbion, the principality's isolated location makes it difficult to receive reinforcements and much needed supplies.

Much of Glamorgan's rugged terrain consists of cold highlands, marshes, and wooded hills where extensive farming is difficult. Nevertheless, its temperature is not as harsh as Zeracon, prompting periodic raids from the barbarians of the north over the past centuries. The enemies surrounding the realm are many, and its people are forced to fight against the barbarian marauders from Zeracon and the Forest of Shadows while maintaining a vigilant watch against Arretium. Glamorgan therefore maintains a decent body of cavalry including a number of Knights, supported by auxiliary levied infantry. While its people possess a proud tradition of guerilla warfare and ranged combat, its nobles have opted to focus on mounted warfare instead which they believe gives them the best chance of beating back invaders and even reclaiming their lost homeland one day.

The principality is the smallest realm of men in terms of both size and population. Its people are ruled over by the Princes of Glamorgan, who have vowed never to use the title of "King" until their ancient homeland is reclaimed. Despite their passionate cause, however, Glamorgan in reality is a dying realm, with its national progress stagnated by stubborn adherence to tradition and ancient grudges.

**People & Culture: **

While genetically similar to human inhabitants of Arretium, the people of Glamorgan also share common ancestry with the people of the western continent. Scarce resources and constant raiding has bred them tough, dour, and persistent—ironically not unlike the Zeracon barbarians they must fight from time to time. The people in general—especially its nobles—harbor an intense hatred of Arretium and its Silvanii inhabitants who have taken away their bountiful homeland centuries ago. Like in some people in Reikmar, insularism and cynicism are common traits amongst the populace.

**Military Strengths & Weaknesses:**

Decent Cavalry & Excellent Light Infantry

Small army size & outdated equipment/tactics

**Real-world influences/archetype:** Medieval Wales & Ireland

**Divine Weapon:** Ouroboros, the Consuming Darkness (Lost; Taken by Arretium)

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**Minor Factions & Places of Interest: **

_**The Forest of Shadows**_

The Forest of Shadows is a thick and vast stretch of woodland running across the northern parts of the eastern continent, blocking a direct overland route between Zeracon and Arretium. The place is so named because of the ever-present gloom hovering in the thickets, brought on by the lingering presence of ancient elven magic. Though the passage across the forest is not impossible, most men tend to avoid the place. The Forest of Shadows is however strategically important to the neighboring factions: for Arretium, it serves as a natural buffer against Zeracon barbarians, and for Zeracon and Glamorgan, it is a readily available source of lumber and game that supports their people. The remoteness of the region also makes the forest a popular haven for fugitives and smugglers. Despite all things, the Forest of Shadows is full of dangers. Aside from ancient magic that creates illusions and false echoes that can trap and mislead unwary interlopers, a tribe of wild men even more primitive than the Zeracons make home amongst the trees. Having resisted all attempts of civilization, these savages stubbornly maintain their own primitive ways of life—including cannibalism. Their occasional raids into more civilized lands are a cause of constant concern for the neighboring factions.

Despite their primitive culture, the origins of these forest-people are more interesting than anyone would care for. They are in fact the devolved descendants of the Samogithians, a group of ancient humans who became subjugated by the elves and served as their slaves. Even during the Crusade of Light, these men took arms against the invading humans, resulting in their near purge at the end of the war. With the coming of Glamorgan, the surviving Samogithians scattered and had fled into the eastern foothills, clung to the infertile edges of the realm, or in this case fled into the Forest of Shadows. Some theorists believe that the ancient magic in the forest is to blame for their primitive ways, though no conclusive proof has yet been set forth.

_**The Pirates of the Great Sea**_

The sea that separates the eastern and the western continents of Ellendia contains many archipelagos and islands scattered across the equatorial region. While the Republic of Ispellia holds dominion over many, the rapid currents running through the region make it impossible to control all of them. To those uncharted and ungoverned islands flock the fugitives, deserters, and criminals from all over the world, eventually creating communities bound to no law but their own. This hodge-podge collection of men soon developed a fearsome reputation as pirates. Whereas Zerakon raiders opt for seaborne invasions into settlements, the Pirates of the Great Sea specialize in hijacking merchant ships and holding hostages for ransom. Though the Ispellian navy tirelessly patrols the waters to safeguard the shipping lanes, pirates still roam the wilder parts of the ocean with impunity to this day and exacts great toll upon the passing merchant convoys each year.

_**The Hill-Men of the Jagged Peaks**_

The very eastern edge of Arretium ends in a chain of steep mountains called the Jagged Peaks that bar further passage. A number of barbaric but peaceful tribes eke out a scant living upon the foothills of these mountains, having been driven there by the Kingdom of Glamorgan centuries ago. Each community occupies a small stretch of arable land that is rare in this barren region, relying on small-scale trade to supplement their everyday needs. Unbeknownst to these simple people, the foothills they occupy are rich with iron and other precious minerals—a fact that had not gone unnoticed by the Republic of Arretium. An expeditionary force of three legions under the command of the brilliant Silvan general Marius Severus Boreale had subsequently reduced the land into a warren of mines and quarries where enslaved tribesmen toil day and night to meet the demanding quota. Those who had managed to escape the yoke of slavery continue to resist in spite of Arretium's military might.


	3. Race & Class

**FE: The Dark Legacy – Race & Class**

* * *

**Race: **

_**Human**__**s**_:

The humankind is the most populous, if not predominant, race inhabiting the world of Ellendia. While sharing some linguistic similarities, different ethnic backgrounds and cultural differences divide men into different realms that more than often oppose one another. Disorder, foolishness, and strife are inextricably interwoven throughout the history of mankind, and it certainly defies belief that despite all, human civilization continues to prosper and grow year after year. One might even say that mankind thrives in adversity, that the singular desire to overcome obstacles and better themselves has given them the advantage humans enjoy over other races. To many outsiders, mankind is the ultimate example of paradox made flesh.

Humans on average are the most physically developed of the three races, though their lifespan and magical potentials lag behind. The unique ability to use Light and Dark magic helps to even the scales, as so do their capacity to use heavier arms and armor. Men's greatest strength, however, lies in their versatility—the ability to adapt to any given situation or environment. This quality is reflected in humans having access to many different classes that are not available to other races, which allows humans a great degree of tactical flexibility. Finally, one must never forget that no human ever fights alone. A man by himself may be weak and helpless, but working together, humans display great courage and achieve feats that may surprise the elder race.

_**El**__**ves**_:

The elves are the firstborn race of Ellendia whose days have long passed into ancient history. Forsaken by their creators and defeated by humans in an ancient war, the elder race is believed to be all but extinct. All that remains now of their once mighty civilization are half-buried ruins, dusty artifacts in museums, and the reclusive Silvani of Arretium. Though rumors of their sightings surface every now and then, the closest knowledge anyone alive has of these mysterious beings come from books and paintings—many of them horribly inaccurate. In truth, a small number of elves still inhabit the remotest corners of the world, watching and waiting for a future they can no longer predict.

Although roughly humanoid, elves tend to be on average fairer, lighter, and much thinner than humans. In exchange for physical frailty, this allows them to move faster and with greater grace than other races who in their eyes appear slow and clumsy. Their two most prominent distinguishing traits are their long and pointy ears and their eyes, which lack both the pupil and the iris. The senses of the Elves are much heightened, which allows them to hear, see, and feel what humans or the Silvani can't.

Elves live for millennia and do not suffer sicknesses as other races do. Coupled with their potent magical talents, this drastically affects the way elves view the world and the other races today. To them, every mortal effort appears short-sighted, foolish, and ultimately useless. Even the best works of art or craftsmanship out there are nothing but crude parodies of their own magnificent skills honed for thousands of years. To see the younger races take pride in those trinkets genuinely perplexes the elves. On the other hand, elves are more patient than any other races simply because they live long enough to learn that nothing comes fast or easy. While humans or the Silvani struggle to leave some mark on their societies before their death, elves believe life lived according to its natural flow is the best one.

Despite their horrible past, most of the surviving elves have since learned to let go of any grudges against the humans. While sorrows of their fall remain strong, they understand that their golden age on Ellendia has come to an end, and that it is no longer their right to tamper with fate. That the humans had taken their place as the dominant race, to elves, is an unchangeable part of history. Nevertheless, elves are just as curious as any other living creatures and are still interested in keeping up with current affairs from afar. The rise of the Silvani and their self-proclaimed role as the spiritual successors of the elves in particular intrigue and baffle them.

_**The Silvani**:_

The Silvani are a peculiar race that has inherited from both the humans and the elves. Born of contrived physical unions between the two elder races, the so-called half elves fall somewhere halfway in terms of physical strengths and magical powers. Enthusiasts may say the Silvani are stronger than the elves and more magically gifted than humans; critics will believe they merely have little of both, and that they are not as strong as humans or as magically talented as elves. Regardless of prevailing opinions, it is true that it had taken some time for the Silvani to properly define their racial identity. Are they humans? Elves? Or are they both? The most current consensus among the Silvani is that they are neither, that they themselves are a race distinct from both men and elves. Given their isolation from the world and an obsession with rediscovering ancient elven legacies, however, it is clear that most Silvani do not really believe in their own doctrine.

The Silvani closely resemble humans physically, with a few minute distinguishing traits. They are somewhat slimmer, and the tips of their ears are slightly pointed. They don't live any longer than humans, but they do have greater resistance to diseases. The biggest difference can be seen in their eyes: within their pupils are what appear to be small rotating whirlpools of magical energy. That, and the fact that their eyes glow whenever they use magic clearly set the Silvani apart from humans.

All Silvani, due to the hostility from humans, dwell in the Republic of Arretium—apart from a few spies sent to monitor military activities in human nations.

* * *

**Classes: **(The classes outlined below are roughly based on the 15th & 16th century European military)

**Princess**: Sword (Human)

A member of the royal family seeking to restore peace to her kingdom

**Advances to**: ?

**Magistrate**: Anima (Silvani)

An ambitious noble-bureaucrat desiring change and power above all else

**Advances to**: ?

**Guard**: Spear (All)

Role: Medium Defensive Infantry

Description:

Unlike the seasonally conscripted Soldiers who make up the majority of an army, Guards are the professional veterans with a lifelong employment in the military. Equipped with superior armor and weaponry, Guards fight in dense rectangular formations to fully exploit their training and discipline. Elbion, Ispellia, Reikmar, and Bosphoria all retain Guard regiments to serve as backbone of their military.

Appearances:

A typical Guard is equipped with a sturdy breastplate with tassets, helmets (Elbion Guards wear burgonets and the Ispellian Guards the cabasset/morion helms, while Reikmar Guards favor sallets), and perhaps a tabard or other devices to signify their allegiances. Bosphorian Guards, however, usually wear chainmail, lamellar, or scale mail armor with spiked helmets and chain veils instead of plate favored by their western counterparts. Guards usually use long pikes, spears, or various polearms in battle.

Notable Guards: Elbion, Reikmar, Ispellia and Bosphoria

Advances to: Sergeants, Rangers

**Sergeant**: Spear, Sword (All)

Role: Heavy Defensive Infantry

Description:

Sergeants are frontline leaders of Guard regiments, responsible for relaying orders and keeping the formation together. Befitting their station, Sergeants are equipped with three-quarters plate armor that offers better protection, as well as backswords in addition to the traditional pikes or polearms.

Skills: Rally—boosts the stats of nearby units

Appearances:

Sergeants don three-quarters plate and burgonet/sallet/morion/cabasset helmets with feathers/plumes. They are armed with backswords and pikes/polearms. Bosphorian Sergeants wear heavy lamellar plate armor with their traditional spiked helmets.

Notable Sergeants: Elbion, Ispellia, Reikmar, and Bosphoria

**Hunter**: Bow (All)

Role: Light Ranged Infantry & Skirmisher

Description:

Hunters are hardened woodsmen and trappers who, in times of war, are recruited as scouts, skirmishers, and irregular support troops. While they may not be professional soldiers, Hunters are nevertheless valued for their great knowledge of the local terrain and the ability to navigate through the wilderness.

Appearances:

Hunters are usually decked out in outfits of leather and cloth. They are equipped with sturdy bows of various qualities.

Notable Hunters: Hunters are found in all armies.

Advances to: Rangers, Crossbowmen

**Ranger**: Bow, Spear (All)

Role: Light Ranged Infantry & Skirmisher

Description:

Rangers are veteran warriors who can spend months in the wilderness tracking their prey. With their superior knowledge of the woods, these individuals can launch deadly ambushes from hidden positions and melt back into the trees before their enemy can respond to the threat. Rangers are also expert marksmen, having trained with their bows for many years.

Skills: Camouflage—able to hide in forests and attack without revealing themselves

Long Shot (Passive)—increased attack range

Appearances:

Rangers favor leather and cloth armor with hooded cloaks. They are armed with longbows, javelins, and spears.

Notable Rangers: Found all across the world

**Crossbowman: **Bow, Sword (Humans, Silvani)

Role: Medium Ranged Infantry

Description:

Crossbowmen are moderately armored missile troops who, unlike the Rangers, are fully integrated into the regular army. While lacking the firing rate and range of the Rangers' longbows, their crossbows boast much greater penetrating power and are able to punch through what regular arrows cannot. While their slow reloading rate can leave them vulnerable to charging enemies, the crossbowmen are also able to fight with short swords once they are embroiled in a melee.

Skills: Deploy Pavise—Becomes immobile, but greatly increases defense and resistance

Piercing Shot (Passive)—ranged attacks are effective against armor

Appearances:

Crossbowmen, like Guards and Squires, are equipped with armor and helmet from their respective cultures, though some individuals may forego armor in exchange for greater mobility. Many crossbowmen also carry pavises for sieges and defenses.

Notable Crossbowmen: Crossbowmen are found in all armies.

**Raider**: Axe (Humans only)

Role: Medium Assault Infantry

Description:

Raiders are brutal tribal warriors and seaborne marauders who favor raw strength rather than finesse of arms. Eschewing discipline found in more civilized armies, Raiders charge headlong into enemy lines with berserk fury, cutting down foes with their vicious axes and sturdy wooden round shields.

Appearances:

Raiders are clad in leather, fur, and perhaps some light mail or a helmet if one could afford them. Some warriors adorn themselves with war paint and tribal fetishes to frighten their enemies. They wield wicked war axes, throwing hatchets, and decorated round shields in battle.

Notable Raiders:

Raiders hail almost exclusively from "less civilized" nations—most prominently Zeracon, though they are also prevalent in Bosphoria, wild tribes from the Forest of Shadows, and the hill-men dwelling just beyond the eastern borders of Arretium. Large groups of Zeracon Raiders are also often found serving as mercenaries all across the known world.

Advances to: Chieftains, Thanes

**Chieftain**: Axe, Mace (Humans only)

Role: Heavy Assault Infantry

Description:

Chieftains are brutal men who have gained the mantle of tribal leadership by the virtue of strength and skills of arms. These powerful warriors personally lead their men into battle from the front, cutting into the enemy with unmatched ferocity. As leaders of entire tribes—and by extension an entire mercenary company—Chieftains are equipped with the best weapons and armor available as well as numerous trophies to signify their strengths. The more successful the Chieftain, the more trophies he has at hand.

Skills: Intimidate—automatically frightens nearby enemies, lowering their combat effectiveness

Appearances:

Chieftains are clad in fur, leather, and heavy chainmail with horned full helms. Chieftains wield massive double-headed axes or brutal mauls.

Notable Chieftains: Zeracon, Bosphoria, Wild Tribes living in the Forest of Shadows and along the Eastern Mountains of Arretium

**Thane**: Axe, Sword, Spear (Humans only)

Role: Heavy Cavalry

Description:

Thanes are not only renowned tribal warriors, but also wealthy lords who can afford to go to war on horseback. Historically, horses are rare and difficult to breed in "uncivilized" nations where the land is harsh and inhospitable. Owning one of these beasts, therefore, is a visible mark of status and wealth in those communities—and by extension, the owner's success as a warrior and a raider.

Skills: Bloodthirsty (Passive)—damage dealt increases with each successive attack

Appearances: Essentially a Chieftain on horseback

Notable Thanes: Bosphoria, Zeracon

**Burglar**: Dagger (All)

Role: Light Infantry & Specialist

Description:

Burglars are individuals of criminal nature, with shady reputations and equally unscrupulous methods of fighting. Nevertheless, myriad talents the Burglars bring to the table—such as lock-picking, stealing, spying, and infiltration—make them valuable assets in prolonged campaigns. Burglars tend to avoid pitched combat, instead relying on guile and trickery to evade and overcome their foes.

Skills: Steal—steals an item from an enemy

Lock Pick—opens locked doors and treasure chests

Appearances:

Burglars dress very lightly, sometimes with dark-colored cloaks for added stealth. They carry wicked daggers and throwing knives in battle, though many are known to carry more than just one insidious tool beneath their cloaks…

Notable Burglars: Burglars are found everywhere in the world.

Advances to: Agents, Ninjas

**Agent**: Dagger, Bow (All)

Role: Light Infantry & Specialist

Description:

Agents are seasoned spies, assassins, bounty hunters, con-men and masters of disguise who are employed for their ruthless efficiency. Agents are known to coat their weapons with poison to cripple and paralyze their enemies before dispatching them.

Skills: Steal

Venomous Strike: deals a poisoned attack that cripples and slowly damages foes

Lock Pick

Appearances: Similar to Burglars, with some leather armor for extra protection.

Notable Agents: found in almost all armies

**Ninja**: Dagger, Sword (All)

Role: Light Stealth Infantry & Infiltrator

Description:

Although the concept of a "Ninja" is an unfamiliar one in Ellendia, consistent reports of individuals with such titles have been surfacing recently across many nations. These shadowy men and women claim to have come from the mysterious lands far east of the Bosphorian Empire across its great desert. While many people dismiss these wild claims as ludicrous, those who encounter these "Ninjas," however, are forced to concede that their combat style of unmatched agility and stealth mixed with exotic swordsmanship is unheard of in the known world. Though none can say for sure what these enigmatic people are pursuing so far away from their home, the observations made so far suggest adventure, fame, and worthy adversaries to test their mettle.

Skills:

Shadowrun—becomes invisible to enemy eyes, which lasts right until the Ninja makes an attack; the attack made while invisible deals massive damage

Smoke Bomb: temporarily blinds the enemy, sharply reducing his accuracy

Appearances:

A typical ninja getup, including, puffy pants, dark garbs, and ninja hoods. The Ninjas are armed with elegant _katana _blades, as well as throwing knives and smoke bombs.

Notable Ninjas: Mysterious people from the East; ninjas are not native to Ellendia

**Squire**: Sword (Humans, Silvani)

Role: Medium Assault Infantry

Description:

Squires are armored and sword-equipped professional infantrymen who specialize in cutting open gaps in enemy formations via brutal close-quarters combat. Though not as numerous as their Guard compatriots, they are paid almost twice as much for their dangerous but important combat roles, which often result in high number of casualties. Because swords are thought to require greater skills and time to master properly than pole weapons, the Squires usually hold themselves in high regard—creating an intense rivalry with the Guard regiments.

Appearances:

In Elbion and Reikmar, Squires are typically equipped with breastplates, tassets, and burgonets/sallets, and use massive two-handed _zweihanders_ in battle (in the fashion of _landsknecht doppelsoldners_). Ispellian Squires on the other hand are equipped with breastplates and morion/cabasset helms, wielding a large metal bucklers with side-swords (in the fashion of Spanish rodeleros). Bosphorian Squires favor scale/chain mail armor and _chichak _helmets with round shields and scimitars.

Notable Squires: Elbion, Reikmar, Ispellia, and Bosphoria

Advances to: Champions, Knights

**Champion**: Sword, Mace (Humans, Silvani)

Role: Heavy Assault Infantry

Description:

Champions are veteran line breakers clad in three-quarters plate who wield heavier swords or maces. With superior armaments, these warriors can take on the deadliest foes with impunity and finesse.

Skills: Provoke—draws attentions of all nearby enemy units for a short period of time, protecting more vulnerable allies from harm

Appearances: Similar to the Squires, with greater armor and weapons of superior quality

Notable Champions: found in almost all armies

**Templar**: Sword (Silvani, Elves)

Role: Magical Assault Infantry

Description:

Templars are the elite warriors of the Arretine military, a devoted Order of Silvani well-versed in both swordplay and magic. Unlike the Silvani Adepts who manifest their mana stream externally to cast magic, the Templars instead channel their mana internally in order to magically strengthen their muscles and increase their reflexes. With the ability to "enchant" their weapons with Anima magic—whereupon their blades are sheathed with the elements for magical attacks at close range—the Templars thrive in frontline melee where their superior martial skills and versatility often carry the day. Armed with deadly rune blades and sturdy heater shields, the Templars are both terrible foes and powerful allies. (A Fire Emblem equivalent of a Star Wars Jedi Knight)

Skills: Enchant/Disenchant—channels magic through their rune blades that allows sorcerous melee attacks

Appearances:

Templars wear suits of half-plate armor that covers their upper torso—which include spaulders, tassets, and gauntlets—capes, with winged full helms (Think the Swan Knights of Gondor). Their weapons are heater shields and rune blades.

Notable Templars: All Templars pledge their allegiance to Arretium, and are responsible for safekeeping her borders from potential enemies. Though an elf could also theoretically become a Templar if he or she wished so, no known records of Elven Templars exist as of yet…

Advances to: Arch Templars, Knight Templars

**Arch Templar**: Sword, Axe (Silvani, Elves)

Role: Magical Assault Infantry

Description:

Arch Templars are the most experienced members of the Templar Order who have been given use of the rare and valuable Power Armors. Representing the pinnacle of Arretine magi-technology, these formidable suits of thick runed plate draw energy from the mana reservoirs of their wearers in return for increased strength, stamina, and protection. Naturally, this significant demand in magical energy makes the Arch Templars some of the most capable magic-users known in Arretium. Because of their increased armor protection, the Arch Templars eschew shields in favor of great two-handed rune blades and rune axes.

Skills: Enchant/Disenchant

Appearances:

Suits of thick plate armor encasing the Templar from head to toe, including adorned helmets with tinted eye lenses and capes. For better mental image, picture miniaturized versions of guymelefs from _Visions of Escaflowne _or the Knights from the video game _The White Knight Chronicles. _

Notable Arch Templars: All Arch Templars pledge their allegiance to Arretium

**Knight Templar**: Sword, Spear (Silvani, Elves)

Role: Magic Cavalry

Description:

Knight Templars are experienced members of the Templar Order who have gained proficiency in mounted combat. In addition to their steeds, the Knight Templars also learn to use the rune spears, which are more effective cavalry weapons than their standard rune blades.

Skills: Enchant/Disenchant

Appearances:

Basically a Templar mounted on horseback, with additional armor on the lower body

Notable Knight Templars: All Knight Templars pledge their allegiance to Arretium

**Fencer**: Sword (All)

Role: Light Assault Infantry

Description:

Fencers are unarmored or lightly armored swordsmen who are often counted as irregular troops at best. Rather than meeting their enemies headlong, fencers use their agility and fluid reflexes to outmaneuver their opponents in order to strike at the gaps in their defenses. Instead of brute strength, these swordsmen emphasize deft strokes and artful sword maneuvers. Fencers usually tend to be mercenaries with no particular allegiances but to themselves.

Appearances:

Fencers in general favor outfits of cloth or light leather armor befitting their fighting styles. In Elbion, Reikmar, and Ispellia, fencers favor slim, thrusting swords such as the rapier or the estoc, while those from Arretium and Bosphoria favor elegant single-edged blades. Elven fencers wield dual blades, and Men from the Eastern Lands use _katanas_

Notable Fencers:

Ispellia is a famed home of many renowned mercenary Fencers; many Elves, due to their inherent agility, also choose to become Fencers—these particular Elves are individuals considered "too wild and short-tempered" among their more calm and even-tempered brethren.

Advances to: Duelists, Ninjas

**Duelist**: Sword (All)

Role: Light Assault Infantry

Description:

Duelists are master swordsmen whose fluid strokes almost border on artful acrobatics. As their title suggests, they particularly excel in one-on-one combat rather than in pitched battles, where their lighter armor puts them in disadvantage. Preferring to fight alone, almost all Duelists walks the path of mercenaries, plying their swift sword-arms to the highest bidders across the world.

Appearances:

Similar but somewhat fancier in appearances to Fencers, some choosing to wear feathered wide-brimmed hats, sashes, or other expensive, high-quality outfits.

Skills: Swift Blade (Passive)—The Duelist may perform additional attacks

Notable Duelists: Ispellia, Elves, and Men from the Mysterious East

**Dragoon**: Sword, Spear (All)

Role: Medium Cavalry

Description:

Dragoons are moderately armed horsemen drawn from wealthier citizens or younger aristocrats who had not yet attained knighthood. As well as providing mounted support in battle, they are also expected to dismount and fight on foot if necessary. Though not as heavily armed as the Knights, the Dragoons can still deliver a potent charge with their cavalry spears and swords.

Appearances:

Dragoons of the western lands are usually equipped with light cavalry armor and burgonet/sallet/cabasset/morion helmets, and armed with small shields, long spears and arming swords. Their horses are unarmored in order to provide greater speed and mobility. Dragoons of Arretium wear the standard-issue Legionary armor (see Legionary), while those from Bosphoria typically are equipped with chain/scale mail armor with scimitars, spears, and shields, and are sometimes known to ride camels.

Notable Dragoons: Dragoons are found in almost every army.

Advances to: Knights, Outriders

**Knight**: Sword, Spear, Mace (Humans, Silvani)

Role: Heavy Cavalry

Description:

Knights are the most potent warriors in a human army. Clad from head to toe in thick plate armor and mounted on barded destriers, these noble horsemen can deliver devastating charges with their heavy war lances, following up with punishing blows from their arming swords or flanged maces. On a battle field, only a few can withstand the combined onslaught of an entire Knight cadre.

Skills: Charge (Passive)—first attack against an enemy may deal double damage

Appearances:

Elbion, Reikmar, Ispellia: Clad in full plate armor, wielding shields, heavy lances, swords, and maces (a typical 15th & 16th century European knight)

Arretium: The Knights of Arretium, also known as the Knights of the Republic, are a dedicated but small order loyal only to the state. They wear suits of plate armor, a flowing cape, and a helm resembling a Corinthian helm with a semicircular horsehair crest set horizontally on top, a la Roman Centurion.

Bosphoria: The Bosphorian equivalent of a Knight is called a Cataphract. Instead of plate armor, both the rider and the horse—sometimes camel—are fully decked in heavy lamellar and heavy chain armor, wielding heavy spear, a long scimitar, and a mace.

Notable Knights: Both Elbion and Reikmar maintain a large contingent of Knights, while the Bosphorian Empire also boasts an impressive number of Cataphracts.

**Outrider**: Bow, Sword, Spear (All)

Role: Light Ranged Cavalry

Description:

Outriders are swift horse-archers whose role is to outmaneuver enemies and break up their ranks with hit-and-run arrow volleys. Masters of horseback archery, Outriders can serve as potent force on the battlefield if properly deployed.

Skills: Hit-and-Run (Passive)—may move again after attacking

Rough Rider (Passive)—the unit's movement is not hampered by desert or snow

Appearances:

Outriders wear cloth and leather jerkin/brigandine armor, and are armed with light spears, swords, and sturdy bows.

Notable Outriders:

The vast southern plains of the Bosphorian Empire are home to several nomad clans, whose livelihood centered on horses makes them excellent cavalrymen. Coupled with excellent marksmanship, these Outriders are deadly foes whose bodkin arrows launched by composite bows can even penetrate plate armor. Like other tribes inhabiting Bosphoria, the nomad warriors pledge their bows to the service of the great Sultan.

**Pegasus Knight**: Spear (Humans only)

Role: Light Flyer

Description:

Gifted to mankind by the Old Gods to effectively combat magic-wielding Elves, the pegasi are majestic winged horses with uncanny abilities to moderately resist magic. The riders who take to the skies on the pegasi are not only expert mage-hunters but also swift aerial attackers who can sow great discord among enemy infantry with hit-and-run tactics. In order to minimize the load on their mounts, the Pegasus Riders have always been females.

Skills: Descend/Ascend—The Pegasus lands on the ground to fight as regular light cavalry, sacrificing mobility for greatly reduced vulnerability to arrows

Appearances:

Pegasus Knights wear light armor and headgear made of steel plates and hardened leather, and are armed with long spears and javelins.

Notable Pegasus Riders:

Though the men of the west regularly deploy Pegasus Riders in battle, the great majority of them are found in the counties of Reikmar, where the tradition of aerial combat had been maintained the longest. With esprit-de-corp rivaling that of the Knightly Orders, the Pegasus Riders of Reikmar had long served as the first line of defense against the aggressions of their northern neighbor, the Kingdom of Elbion.

Advances to: Wind Knights

**Wind Knight**: Spear, Sword (Humans only)

Role: Medium Flyer

Description:

Wind Knights are veteran warriors on stronger pegasi, armed with heavier armor and weapons. Whereas Pegasus Knights specialize in fast light-armed skirmishes and hit-and-run tactics, the Wind Knights engage their enemies in outright frontal charge, ramming into ranks with heavy lances and swords.

Skills: Descend/Ascend

Appearances: Light plate mail armor with open-faced helmets, armed with war lances, shields, and swords

Notable Wind Knights: Reikmar

**Serpent Rider**: Spear (All)

Role: Amphibious Specialist

Description:

One of the most interesting creatures inhabiting Ellendia is the Sea Serpent, which makes its home in the shallow island coves of the Great Sea. Despite their nomenclature, the sea serpents are actually more closely related to whales and dolphins than reptiles. With a fin-crested head resembling a salamander, large eyes, strong sinuous body with tough leather, and four stout legs with webbed claws, the Sea serpents are graceful beasts with unmatched agility in water. They are also rather docile and very intelligent, traits that the pirates of the Great Sea had been quick to take advantage of in order to train them as waterborne mounts. As well as their swiftness, the serpents' ability to swim against the current also make them ideal for raiding merchant ships and attacking coastal settlements. Serpents are also amphibious, though their movements are a bit clumsier on land.

Appearances:

The serpent riders wear very little armor—which are rather useless in the water—and typically cover themselves in leather instead. They are armed with wicked harpoons which are ideally suited for both throwing and fighting in close quarters.

Notable Serpent Riders: the Pirates of the Great Sea

Advances to: Corsairs

**Corsair**: Spear, Axe (All)

Role: Amphibious Specialist

Description:

Corsairs are expert Serpent Riders who wield axes as well as spears.

Skills: Submerge—dives underwater for a stealthy approach

Aquatic Warfare (Passive)—gains stats bonus while in water

Appearances:

Basically a Serpent Rider with slightly better armor and bigger mounts

Notable Corsairs: Pirates of the Great Sea

**Griffin Rider**: Axe (All)

Role: Medium Flyer

Description:

Unlike the gentle pegasi, griffins are fierce creatures whose vicious temperament makes them difficult to tame. Nevertheless, persistent individuals who managed to bring these beasts to heel have found griffins to be both loyal and deadly. In combat, Griffin Riders hurtle from above to sweep into enemy formations with long-axes while their mounts pummel and rake their enemies with sharpened claws and beaks.

Appearances: Griffin Riders wear heavy chainmail and toughened leather, and are armed with long-handled axes, and ride on unarmored griffins.

Notable Griffin Riders:

Griffins are native to the Zagros Mountains in the northeastern region of the Bosphorian Empire, where the native mountain tribes gather their eggs to breed them from hatchlings. Though fiercely independent, these mountain men heed the mustering call of the Sultan in times of great wars.

Advances to: Griffin Lords, Thanes

**Griffin Lord**: Axe, Bow (All)

Role: Heavy Flyer

Description: Griffon Lords are veteran Griffin Riders with superior arms and thick armor, effectively becoming flying Knights. Both the rider and his mount are sheathed in lamellar plate armor, providing more momentum to the charge. Griffin Lords are also master bowmen, allowing them not only aerial superiority but also the ability to launch devastating missile barrages from above when grouped together.

Skills: Aerial Momentum (Passive)—attacks made against infantry deal extra damage

Appearances: The rider and the griffin wear sturdy lamellar plate armor, with the rider wielding long double-headed axes and composite bows.

Notable Griffin Lords: Tribes of the Zagros Mountains in the Bosphorian Empire.

**Cleric**: Staff (All)

Role: Supporting Spellcaster

Description:

Most Clerics are the priests and priestesses of the Church of Light, the greatest religious body in Ellendia. Following the sacred tenets of charity and peace, clerics prefer to remain behind the lines to treat the wounded with their healing magic.

Appearances:

Robes of black and white with an emblem of golden sun

Notable Clerics/Medics:

The Clerics of the Church of Light are comprised of most nationalities (except Bosphoria and Zeracon). Arretium maintains its own separate branch of the Church.

Advances to:

Bishops, Seers

**Bishop**: Staff, Light (Humans only)

Role: Supporting Spellcaster

Description:

Bishops are senior clerics of the Church of Light, invested with greater authority to oversee operations of multiple parishes across the world. In addition to staves, Bishops can also use Light magic for self-protection.

Skills: Holy Presence (Passive)—Nearby allies regain some health each turn.

Appearances: Clerical robes, with cloth chapeaus; Chaplains may wear light armor

Notable Bishops: Clerics from the Church of the Light

**Seer: **Staff, Anima (All)

Role: Mounted Spellcaster

Description:

Seers are experienced spellcasters who take to battle on swift horses. Their presence on the battlefield as rapid-response magical support is valuable, as are their expertise with healing magic. Many a beleaguered forces have seen the tide of battle turn with the timely arrival of seers.

Skills: Magic Shield (Passive)—The seer may nullify an attack made against him/herself

True Sight (Elf only)—clears up fog or darkness in a target area and reveals hidden enemies

Appearances: Seers typically wear robes, gowns, dresses, or other clothing

Notable Seers: Found in all armies

**Acolyte**: Light (Humans only)

Role: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

Although the Church of Light espouses peace and forbids its members from outright violence, its clergy nevertheless recognizes the importance of defending themselves from the evils of this world. To that end, a number of its adherents become Acolytes in order to practice Light Magic, sanctioned by the Church for its ability to dispel dark magic as well as burning, not bleeding, the victims—thereby bypassing the clerical vow against bloodshed. Acolytes are mainly charged with escorting missionaries in their forays into more dangerous parts of the world, as well as defending the parish and the surrounding settlements during invasions.

Appearances:

Black and white robes embroidered with an emblem of a golden sun. Carries Light Magic Tomes for protection

Notable Acolytes:

The lay brothers and sisters of the Church of Light comprised of most nationalities (Arretium's own Church of Light is separate from the main branch based in Ispellia. Bosphorian Empire and Zeracon do not contribute to the brotherhood of the Church as they do not follow the tenets of the Light.)

Advances to: Bishops, Inquisitors

**Inquisitor**: Light, Mace (Humans only)

Role: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

If Bishops represent mercy of the Light, then Inquisitors stand for its divine retribution. Clad in plate mail and robe, these warrior-priests stride brazenly into the frontlines with zealous fire in their eyes, burning the unclean with searing light magic and sundering bones with their mighty war hammers and maces. With fiery sermons and catechisms flowing from their lips, Inquisitors can rally faltering troops into zealous rage and strike fear into anyone opposing them. As the more powerful agents of the Church of Light, Inquisitors are also foremost experts in dealing with…"the creatures of darkness." (Because maces are not bladed weapons, wielding them in battle is also not against the clerical vows of the church)

Skills: Slayer (Passive)—attacks are effective against certain…"dark creatures."

Appearances:

Inquisitors are dressed in plate mail and robe, and carry war hammers and Light Magic Tomes. Their armors are also adorned with religious icons and devices.

Notable Inquisitors: The Church of the Light

**Mag****e**: Anima (Humans, Elves)

Role: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

Mages are wielders of Anima Magic, the art of manipulating fire, thunder, wind, and—for Elves—Ice. While human Mages must train for many years to become proficient at least in one branch of Anima, Elves can handle all four elements without effort and with even greater skills than humans. Unlike Adepts—Silvani equivalents of Mages who can only control a single element—Mages can cast multiple types of elemental spells

Appearances:

Various robes and cloaks, and light armor at most. Armed with various tomes

Notable Magicians: Found in most armies

Advances to: Wizards, Warlocks

**Wizard**: Anima, Staff (All)

Role: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

Wizards are advanced practitioners of Anima Magic who are able to wield more destructive spells as well as healing magic.

Skills: Magical Inspirations— Boosts the stats of nearby spellcasters

Appearances: Similar to Magicians, only fancier

Notable Wizards: Found in most armies

**Minstrel**: (Silvani, Elves)

Role: Supporting Spellcaster

Description:

Within the Elven and, to a lesser extent, Silvan populace, there comes along once in a while a rare few who can innately channel their mana streams in very unique ways. Like the Beastmasters, Minstrels are individuals belonging to this category, with the ability to magically manipulate and direct sound waves to affect the minds and bodies of others. By weaving their mana into a series of particular notes they play, Minstrels can magically restore the stamina of their allies or quicken their movements. Conversely, they can lull their enemies to deep sleep or numb the sensations in their limbs. Skilled minstrels are even known to emit sonic screams that can knock out entire groups!

Skills: Inspiring Tune—grants extra turn to an ally

Martial Beat—greatly boosts an ally's stats for one turn

Alluring Lullaby—Lulls an enemy into a deep sleep

Crippling Note—Impairs enemy movements

Sonic Scream—Damages and disorients nearby foes

Appearances:

Minstrels are typically dressed in colorful adorned clothes that express their individuality and free spirit. They use a variety of instruments in order to play different notes used to weave their magical tune. The most favored instruments are lutes, lyres, and flutes, though some Minstrels have been known to use drums, fiddles, and bagpipes.

Notable Minstrels:

Minstrels are known and appreciated among Elven and Silvani communities not only for their magical assistance but also for their musical talents. In Arretium, Minstrels are recruited to serve in military bands in times of war.

Advances to: none

**Beast Master****:** (Elves only)

Role: Magical Assault Infantry

Description:

Rare even among Elves, Beast masters possess the ability manipulate their mana to draw into their bodies the very forces of the natural world. With it, the beast masters can transform into formidable beasts of war. The ability to change into different forms to suit different terrains provides the Beast Masters a great degree of versatility in battle. In beast form, Beast Masters also have an uncanny ability to see through the darkness and fog.

Skills: Transform—Beast Masters can transform into: Dire Wolves (Forests & Plains), Grizzly Bears (Snow, Forests), Sharks (Water), Giant Scorpions (Deserts), and Great Eagles (Aerial)

Appearances: Clothed in fur, leather, and cloth, and adorned with wreaths of leaves and war paint

Notable Beast Masters: Elves are the only known race to employ Beast Masters, though they are small in number.

Advances to: none

**Cabalist/Witch**: Dark (Humans only)

Role: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

Among the three branches of magic, Dark Magic is at once the easiest and the most difficult one to master. Although the morbid and dreary nature of Dark Magic is not endearing to most practitioners of magic, its ability to cripple foes and overwhelm Anima magic (especially useful against the Silvani) is nevertheless recognized as an important military asset. Furthermore, its learning curve is less steep than that of Anima magic, ensuring a potentially larger recruiting pool. Though Cabalists play appropriate roles to that end, wielding such a volatile and unpredictable magic that draws power from one's soul however comes at a steep price. While strong-willed and virtuous Cabalists can maintain complete control over the flow of Dark Magic, weak-willed and wicked individuals—which the human society unfortunately has no shortage of—will grow even more perverse by using it, effectively becoming wretched magic addicts who will end up committing the vilest deeds with their power. This is not to say Dark Magic is inherently evil, for it is merely taking form after the character of its wielder.

Appearances:

Despite their irregular appearances, Cabalists usually wear dark-colored cloaks or robes and carry Dark Magic tomes with them. Witches—the female equivalent—wear pointed hats with short dresses and gowns (the stereotypical witch getup).

Notable Cabalists/Witches: Cabalists and Witches are found in most human armies.

Advances to: Warlocks/Sorceresses, Necromancers/Hags

**Warlock/Sorceress**: Dark, Anima (Humans only)

Roles: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

Warlocks and Sorceresses are the more powerful practitioners of Dark Magic with additional expertise in Anima. Their ability to keep the potentially horrendous flow of black magic under full control speaks volumes about their character and willpower.

Skills: Magic Siphon—incoming magic attacks may heal the Warlock/Sorceress

Appearances:

Warlocks and Sorceresses are more elaborately dressed versions of their previous classes; some sorceresses may replace their pointed hats for diadems/circlets.

Notable Warlocks/Sorceresses: In most Human armies

**Necromancer/Hag**: Dark, Dagger (Humans Only)

Role: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

Necromancers and Hags are those who have failed to control their powers and succumbed to the clutches of the magic they once wielded. Their evil desires and weaknesses amplified manifold by Dark Magic, several of these individuals become so addicted to their powers that will not hesitate to commit most vile and corrupt deeds in an effort to augment them. Because the military is of course not a collection of saints, Necromancers and Hags are still readily accepted for their skills. Still, strict measures must be taken to ensure they do not cross the socially acceptable lines, the penalty of doing do being death. The responsibility of hunting down these degenerates falls on the shoulders of the Inquisitors from the Church of Light.

In battle, the magical powers of the Necromancers and Hags are wild and chaotic compared to those used by Warlocks and Sorceresses. Necromancers/Hags may raise a number of undead minions to do their bidding, or even transform into a shadowy form to move swiftly across the field and strike at unsuspecting enemies.

Skills: Dark Shroud—Transforms into a creature of shadow that is agile but doubly vulnerable to light magic

Raise Dead—Raises deceased corpses to serve as mindless minions

Appearances:

Necromancers/Hags are raggedy and gaunt in appearances, often clad in frayed hooded robes decorated with a variety of morbid objects.

Notable Necromancers/Hags: In most human armies

**Fire/Wind/Thunder/Frost Adept**: Anima (Silvani only)

Role: Offensive Spellcaster

Description:

The Silvani Adepts are the primary spellcasters of Arretium who, along with the legionaries, make up the backbone of Arretine military. In effect, every Silvan citizen of Arretium is an Adept of one kind or another, having been taught to utilize their powers in everyday life since birth. Though unable to cast more than one type of Anima element like the humans or elves, the Adepts can become powerful individuals whose mastery over their respective elements are unmatched by any humans. Not needing any incantations or tomes to use their magic, they are free to conjure their spells in any form they can manage.

Adepts are divided down into four different groups.

Fire Adept:

Fire adepts are Silvans born with the ability to agitate and vibrate the atoms near them to produce heat. These individuals are often inspirational, charismatic, and daring in personality. As such, they are most likely to become politicians, generals, or business leaders in society. In battle, they may incinerate enemies with blasts of fire, conjure explosions out of thin air, or melt through the thickest armor with concentrated heat beams. Fire Adepts possess the greatest destructive potential among the Adepts.

Thunder Adept:

Thunder Adepts are Silvans born with the ability to conduct mana through the atoms around them and work up a surge of energy akin to electricity. They are very inquisitive individuals who revel in exploring the unknown and discovering everything new. Most thunder adepts therefore end up as inventors, scientists, architects, or scholars. In battle, they can fry multiple foes with lightning, paralyze and slow their victims with static shocks, or manipulate metallic objects via magnetism. Thunder Adepts have the greatest dexterity among the Adepts.

Wind Adept:

Wind Adepts possess the ability to freely move the atoms around them to create air currents of differing magnitudes. They do not like to be bound by laws, but are sensitive and full of in artistic creativity. Artists, poets, and craftsmen are amongst their favored professions, unsurprisingly, though many of them also serve as sailors for their mastery over wind. In battles, the Wind Adepts can summon tornados that can tear apart entire enemy formations, conjure flesh-tearing razor winds, or jump and glide over long distances by magically propelling themselves. They are also the speediest of Adepts.

Frost Adept:

Frost Adepts are usually exacting, calculating, and well-organized individuals with the ability to cluster atoms into dense formations. They often end up becoming bureaucrats, law enforcement officers, and lawyers. In war, the Frost Adepts may freeze their enemies solid with jets of frost, form solid barriers to block incoming fire, or engage in melee using weapons made out of solid ice. Their defense and magical resistance is better than other Adepts.

Appearances:

Adepts serving as regulars in Arretine military wear cloaks and some light armor underneath, though many individuals may wear whatever they wish.

Notable Adepts: A sizeable portion of Arretine citizenry

* * *

**NPC Classes:**

**Soldier**: Spear, Bow (All)

Role: Line Infantry

Description:

Soldiers are semi-professional levied conscripts who comprise the majority of many human armies. Their skills and experiences vary wildly, and their armor and weapons are not of the highest qualities. Nevertheless, the ability to recruit a great number of citizens and arm them cheaply has been the cornerstone of military victories for many centuries.

Appearances:

Soldiers are clad in cloth, boiled leather, or light mail armor, depending on the materials available at hand. They are armed with simple shields and spears, or bows when serving in supporting roles.

Notable Soldiers: Found in most armies

**Legionary**: Sword, Spear (All)

Role: Line Infantry

Description:

The Legionaries are the basic soldiers of the Arretine legions, the backbone of the military drawn mostly from the human citizens of the Republic (A vast majority of Silvani citizens instead provide magical support from behind the line). Unlike the majority of Soldiers in western nations, the legionaries are well-disciplined and equipped professionals who hone their combat skills for decades until retirement. Because every Arretine citizen, both men and women, is subject to at least two years of basic military service, the legions themselves can be reinforced from a vast reserve pool in cases of national emergency. Arretine Legionaries are marked by colored stripes on their spaulders, different colors denoting different roles.

Red: Assault infantry—most numerous type; basic grunts who form the main infantry line

Blue: Cavalry Wing—Dragoons who provide cavalry support

Yellow: The Engineers Corp, responsible for operating siege engines, construction, and sapping

Green: Marines—trained for boarding actions and equipped with floating buoys on their backs

Black: Commandos and Black Ops units—elite units carrying out dangerous missions; often falls under the command of the _Praeventores, _the Arretine spy agency

Appearances: Full plate armor (A soldier of Gondor crossed with a Roman legionary), armed with tower shields, swords, and heavy javelins

**Militia**: Sword, Spear, Axe, Mace, Dagger (All)

Role: Irregular Troops

Description:

Militias are untrained rabble who fight with whatever weapon they manage to find, most of which are not of good quality. Lacking discipline and skills, their only redeeming virtue is the ability to overwhelm their enemies with sheer numbers, aka the ultimate cannon fodder.

Appearances: Very irregular and inconsistent

**Bandit**: Axe (Humans only)

Description: Bandits are criminal brutes who prey on the weak and vulnerable when given chance. Bandits usually attack isolated villages in order to loot and pillage.

Appearances: the same in the older FE series.

**Magical Tomes of Ellendia: Dark Light Anima (Wind Fire Frost Thunder Wind) Dark**

**Light:**

Lightning-Shine-Divine-Purge (Inquisitor only)-Aura (Bishop only)-Legendary

New Additions: Solaris (Strong vs. Anima, Weak vs. Dark)

Luminaire (Reduces enemy defense to zero for the remaining turn)

**Dark:**

Flux-Luna-Nosferatu (Necro./Hag only)-Eclipse-Fenrir (Warlock/Sorc. only)-Legendary

New Additions: Reaper (Increased Critical Chance),

Astra (Strong vs. Light, Weak vs. Anima)

**Anima:**

Fire-Elfire-Meteor-Arcfire

Thunder-Elthunder-Bolting-Arcthunder

Wind-Elwind-Tempest-Arcwind

(Only Silvani and elves have access to Ice Magic)

*Elves and the Silvani do not require tomes, as they are able to cast magic instantaneously without having to utter spells. Silvan and Elven magic are not restricted to a list either, since well-practiced adept/elven mage can direct their magic in any shape or form desired. A _straight_ fight between a human mage and Silvan adept would be a like a duel between a muzzle-loading musket and a repeater rifle. Though it may seem unfair, consider these facts:

A) Though more powerful, the Silvani and Elves will tire out faster than human mages do.

B) A Silvan adept has access to only one branch of Anima magic, while human mages can rotate through three.

C) A human mage is slightly more durable than Silvan or elven counterparts.

In short, human spellcasters may be weaker in terms of power, but they are more durable and more versatile than those from other races.

**Other changes and additions to FE: The Dark Legacy**

**Maces: **Maces are slower to wield, but are very effective against armored foes. They belong in a separate category from axes.

In order to reflect a little more "realism" to the story, the so-called weapon triangle will not be applied here. After all, there is no scientific proof that axes are inherently stronger than spears, or that swords are stronger than axes. The advantages of each weapon type ultimately depend on the tactical situation at hand and the individual skills of the wielder. In addition, different weapons of the same category (i.e. swords, spears, aces, etc.) will not be classed according to their material but by their type. For example, there won't be any "iron swords," or "silver swords," but cutlasses, scimitars, rapiers, long swords, katanas, and so on. (Seriously, who came up with the idea of using silver to forge weapons?) Stating so, I think, can provide a degree of imaginative freedom and flexibility to the narrative. The magic triangle, however, will remain in place.

* * *

**I do realize there may be some flaws here and there in the setup so far. If anyone comes up with pertinent observations or general suggestions for improvement, please let me know. I would appreciate them very much! **


	4. Chapter 1: The Revolution

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. The characters in this story belong to either me or their respective creators.**

**R & R!**

**Chapter 1: The Revolution**

* * *

_The year is 1647 C.E, the fortieth year in the reign of King Philippe the Bold_

_For four decades, the people of the Kingdom of__Elbion had suffered under the tyrannical rule of their monarch. Despite his tremendous talent in waging war, King Philippe possesses more arrogance and recklessness than what scant prudence he has can hold in check. His heart raging with ambition for glory and conquests, the king wields his authority with an iron fist to quench his thirst for war, all without a single regard for the welfare of his subjects. A decade-long military campaign against the Reikmar Confederation had cost countless lives and nearly drained the royal treasury, expenditures only covered by crushing taxes and extortions imposed upon the impoverished peasants and burghers. Even the wealthiest nobles had seen their powers heavily undermined by incessant demands for tithes in gold and manpower. For many years, the oppressed citizenry of Elbion have chosen to endure in silence despite the boiling resentment threatening to surface. After all, what difference could they make in the face of their belligerent king and his cadre of formidable Knights? The best they can hope for the king's eventual death, leaving his throne clear for the succession of his virtuous daughter Princess Leona. _

_All this changed with the coming of the Francis Trompeur. _

_No one kn__e__w exactly where Trompeur had come from. The rumors about the man first surfaced in the rural countryside of Elbion, where the mysterious preacher—clad only in a simple hooded robe that completely obscured his face—was traveling through hamlets and villages attended by a few servants. Despite his unassuming appearance, no one could deny the enthralling power of his words. Everywhere he visited, peasants would flock to listen to his sermons, spellbound and awestruck as Trompeur spoke of wondrous promises and visions that would stir men's hearts and leave them in tears. His charismatic and eloquent voice spoke of freedom, equality, and sympathy for the plights of the common men—ideas long forgotten under the cruel reign of King Philippe. With great anger, he denounced the endless greed of the heartless king and condemned the corruption gripping the aristocracy. Above of all, Trompeur promised knowledge, power, and eternal life to those faithful to him, regardless of their previous positions in society. _

_It was an offer __few were __willing to refuse. _

_Trompeur's followers rapidly swelled in numbers, carefully avoiding the watch of the king's men until they had seized control of the countryside and began making an inroad into larger towns and cities. Wild stories swept across the kingdom of a man hailed as the great prophet, worshipped by his loyal disciples as a messiah who would deliver the masses from oppression and usher them into a new golden age. Each rumor snowballed and grew in magnificence, adding scores of incredible miracles and feats to the growing fame of Trompeur. _

_At the city of Buillone, it was said that every public statue the prophet touched came to life and spontaneously burst into tears of joy; every single female residents of Arvera had undertaken a vow of binding spiritual marriage to Trompeur by the end of his visit there; the wardens at the infamous prison of Sante Guise had been left speechless when the prophet, within a matter of days, converted its raving inmates into virtuous and disciplined zealots with strident hymns upon their lips. __Within months, the prophet's cult was fully entrenched in all __the __major population centers of Elbion, drawing more citizens into its fold daily. Beggars, innkeepers, merchants, and scholars alike heeded the call. Even several nobles, enticed by promises of great power, pledged their allegiances and resources to the cause of the cult. _

_Trompeur named his loyal followers "Rionists," a word for "justice" from what he claimed was a long-lost language from a forgotten past. His cultists accepted the name eagerly, the novelty of the name only adding to feverish speculation about the prophet's seemingly endless knowledge of the unknown. _

_Of course, King Philippe did eventually deign to take notice of the burgeoning cult, momentarily turning away from his usual obsession with war. Without even making a single effort to assess the full extent of the threat, the monarch rashly ordered for the suppression of the cult and the deaths of its ringleaders. For all his strength and fury, King Philippe__ did not __realize that the authority he held for so long had already slipped away from him. Whipped into fervor by Trompeur's promises and visions, the disgruntled citizens of Elbion ha__ve__ long discarded their fear of the king, instead honing their harbored grudge and despair into a single-minded hatred for the established order. A few arrests and public executions were all that were needed to tip them over the boiling point. _

_On the Day of the Sun Ascendant, the greatest holiday in Elbion celebrating the coming of spring, Trompeur finally calls for a great revolution against the king and his villainous cronies. _

_And his flock was all too eager to obey. _

* * *

**_Sossone, the capital city of Elbion_**

The Day of the Sun Ascendant was an occasion for joyous festivities across Elbion. Celebrating the end of harsh winter and the arrival of bounteous spring, the annual holiday saw great feasts and merrymaking unfolding in all quarters of the kingdom. Even the poorest peasants rested their plows to drink away all day and drown out sorrowful realities of their grim lives. The festivity in Sossone especially was regarded as a grand spectacle in itself, outstripping any other known celebrations known across the realms of men in grandiosity and scale.

Garlands of flowers hung from every door, while banners and streamers with colorful patterns adorned the storefronts filled with sweetmeats and ale. Gaily dressed citizens filled the streets to watch the parade of city garrisons weaving down the main boulevard, a rain of confetti coloring the air in a dazzling display of colors. Sound of trumpets, drums, church bells, and raucous laughter rang in the crisp spring air, seemingly blessed by the shining sun hanging high in the sky. Even the usually vigilant sentries relaxed their guard to mingle with the crowd, snatch up flagons of flee ale, or cop a feel of unsuspecting maidens in the throng. The soldiers in the parade column marched on in smug satisfaction and pride, their armor and weapons polished and their uniforms immaculate. In their yearly services to the kingdom, this was one day where they shook off their disciplined lives in the military and enjoyed the pleasures offered to them as much as they could.

So much so, that the soldiers failed to notice secretive glances exchanged amongst the celebrating crowd.

The festivities had reached its zenith, the atmosphere of excitement palpable in every corner of Sossone. Eager children wove through the legs of their parents in frenetic games of chase, accompanied by barking dogs. Troubadours picked their way through the masses merrily singing their songs and tales despite the overwhelming din. Enough ale was drunk by now that spontaneous dances and fights began breaking out in the watching crowd, while some hot-blooded couples ducked into the alleyways to engage in more amorous ventures. Bellowing songs rose in pitch until they all but became senseless cacophony of hysterical screams, laughter, and shouts. Still, the parade column made its steady progress through the mounting chaos in relatively good order without an incident.

When the soldiers reached the middle of the boulevard, however, a gaunt figure abruptly strode into the middle of the path, blocking their progress. The frenzied festivities died down at once as if on cue. The cheering crowd ceased their merrymaking and fell into a disturbingly eerie silence, their blank eyes focused on the man. The soldiers of the parade column looked at each other in confusion and bewilderment, unsure of what to make of the situation. A few however soon realized whom they were facing, and sent a ripple of urgent whispers along the column.

Tall, thin, and shrouded entirely in a gray hooded robe, Francis Trompeur held out his hands into the sky, his pale bony fingers outstretched from the sleeves like ghastly talons. From the hidden depths of his hood, a resonant voice rang out into the clear afternoon sky.

"My beloved brothers and sisters of the True Faith! The time has come to make a stand against the great tyrant! Too long you have suffered under his brutal yoke! Too long you have been denied of what had been rightfully yours! Rise, rise, my brothers and sisters! The days of darkness have finally come to an end, and on this day, we take our first step into a new era of prosperity!"

The voice of the prophet was not especially deep, having a slightly raspy tone that hinted at his wizened years rather than the vitality of youth. Still, there was also an almost irresistible hypnotic quality to his words that transfixed the onlookers. The soldiers gaped at Trompeur aghast, while the crowd looked on impassively. At last, shaking off the shock, a cavalry officer trotted forward from the column while drawing his sword, clearly intending to cut down the upstart. He had barely left the line however when the air whistled sharply, and the officer abruptly staggered on top of his mount. The man stared down dumbly at an arrow shaft sticking from his throat, and slowly collapsed from his horse onto the pavement choking in his own blood.

Within few seconds, the entirety of Sossone descended into pandemonium.

With a savage roar, the crowd charged into the stunned parade column from both sides. Wild-eyed men, women, and even some children snatched out crude weapons concealed within their festive clothing and ripped into unprepared soldiers, frothing rabidly and shouting praises of the Prophet. The mob tore apart their hapless victims within minutes, a number of them eagerly looting the corpses or cutting off body parts for grisly trophies. The cavorting sentries were also cut down where they were standing, many of them too inebriated by free ale to defend themselves properly. The brutal scene was replayed all across the city as Rionist mobs burst into the streets and attacked urban garrisons and government facilities. City watchmen, tax collectors, administrators, and clergymen alike were all dragged out kicking and screaming by the mob to be set on fire or coldly hacked apart with hatchets and knives. Several buildings were torched while gaudy statues of kings past and present in public squares were toppled and demolished. In their fury, the raging Rionists also brought out those few citizens who had not embraced their faith, demanding their allegiance and receiving no refusals. The festive music and laughter of the morning were quickly replaced by the chorus of screams, angry shouts, and crackling fire that filled the city. As the urban landscape rapidly collapsed under the onslaught, the mob collectively began marching on the royal keep, with more joining the throng on the way. With torches, various weapons, and spiked poles with severed heads mounted amidst their arsenal, the cultists droned eerie chants on their steady march, their expressions blank and eyes burning with cold fire.

* * *

**_Meanwhile, inside the royal keep…._**

"How in hell could this happen?!"

One of the three unfortunate sentries who had been chosen to bear the ill news collapsed from the brutal right hook that shattered his lower jaw. His liege lord King Philippe loomed over him fuming, his heavy weathered face crunched into a furious scowl and his enormous right hand curled up in a tight fist. The throne room had fallen into silence that made the dimply lit room more oppressive than usual, as the king vented his murderous rage onto the messengers. His Knights stood by impassively, while the attending nobles huddled as far as they could away from the king, whispering fearfully amongst themselves.

"B-beg pardon, m-milord," quavered one of the remaining sentries as his companion tried to see to the unconscious man. "But everything had happened so quickly! There was simply no time to mount a proper defense!"

"Is that your bloody excuse?! Your _tardiness_?!" Philippe roared. "By the ox-reamed Light, what do those half-witted watchmen think I'm paying them for?! What were they doing not suppressing this rabble before they grew in strength?!"

The sentry quailed under the king's glare, as did the nearby attendants. Despite his apparently blasphemous words and the common knowledge that the city watch simply hadn't had enough funds to mount vigilant investigations in years, no one dared to remind Philippe of the facts.

"Those incapable, insufferable morons! What is the damned Captain of the Watch doing now about this farce?!"

"Milord," the sentry stammered. "Captain Beverois is dead, along with most of his men! The mob overran his post not soon after the assault! I just saw the rebels waving his head mounted on a spear—"

King Philippe let out a growl of frustration and began pacing the room like a caged lion. Despite his years, the monarch was still a formidable man. His graying hair and beard was still quite full and his massive body was still well-muscled despite the increased girth that came with age.

"Those damned ungrateful peasants!" Philippe hissed in anger. "After all I've done to keep them safe! Apparently the order and discipline I've tried to hammer into their primitive minds did no good! I suppose it's only fair that these animals only respond to show of strength!"

King Philippe forcefully strode back to his throne and deposited his crown and unclasped his fur cape unceremoniously.

"Muster all available fighting men onto the wall! Pressgang the servants if necessary! We'll break the rabble against the castle wall, and crush them behind with the reinforcements coming in from Nantine and Terabeux. And Knights, with me! I'll ride out myself, teach the rebels a lesson they'll never forget!"

The throne room immediately burst into a frenzy of activity. King Philippe made his exit with his coterie of Knights in tow, while the remaining guards immediately dispersed to relay the king's orders. Few nobles also retired to their quarters to prepare for battle, although most surreptitiously ducked into dark corners, undoubtedly trying to devise schemes that could get them out of the palace in one piece. The palace servants simply scurried away with their heads down, trying their best not to be seen in order to avoid being pressganged into the imminent battle. The throne room quickly emptied, only leaving a single Knight who was lingering uncertainly at the threshold. After a moment of consideration, he strode out towards a certain room nestled deep in the keep instead of immediately joining his brothers-in-arms.

* * *

The girl was sitting alone by the bed, her long smooth fingers diligently weaving a needle through a small piece of embroidery. Her wide blue eyes were rapt with concentration as she carefully monitored her progress—a single mistake could potentially ruin the delicate pattern of red rose she had been working on for the past week.

She was a paragon of serene beauty who had seen no more than nineteen summers, replete with innocent charms rather than sensuality. A long blonde hair fell around her shoulders in a golden cascade, framing a clean-skinned face with delicate features. The girl was not especially tall but had good posture, her back straight like a spear and her head held up with dignity and pride. Though slim and willowy, her stature beneath her red and white velvet gown suggested wry muscles that held a lot more energy than anyone could suspect her of possessing. It was a countenance befitting a royalty of Elbion.

A loud knock shook the girl from her task. Setting aside her needlework, she smoothed a few wrinkles from her dress and gently cleared her throat.

"You may enter," the girl declared in a clear voice. Despite her clipped accent, her tone still retained a high girlish timbre that failed to convey much authority in her words.

The door to her chamber opened to admit a Knight encased in a suit of full plate armor polished to a gleam. The warrior appeared to be around thirty years of age, though the hardened lines of his face and seriousness in his eyes were those of a seasoned veteran. The Knight had a brown hair cut close to his scalp and sharp brown eyes with rugged features. He was a man of large stature as well, his muscles bulging and well built from years of training and campaigning. His armored hand was cradling his ornate close helm under the crook of his left arm, and a scabbarded arming sword hung from his waist.

"Why, Sir Girard! What a pleasant surprise! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" The girl exclaimed with a delighted smile. In her rather lonely life in the castle, Girard was one of her few friends who wasn't intimidated by her station and without any hidden agendas other than to foster a genuine friendship with her. Even her father paid very little attention to her, having no interest whatsoever in spending time with a "daughter he never wanted." On the other hand, Sir Girard had paid much attention to her well-being, often sharing exciting tales and bearing gifts from the outside world.

"Princess Leona," the Knight bowed. "I could only wish I was visiting for a more pleasant business, but I am afraid I bear grim tidings."

Smile on Leona's face vanished as quickly as it had come.

"The Rionist cultists have staged a massive uprising in the capital," Girard spoke grimly. "They have seized control of the city and are preparing to lay siege to the keep even as I speak. His majesty the king has summoned reinforcements from the nearby cities, but I personally doubt they could arrive here on time to make a difference."

Leona paled, her mind desperately trying to grasp at this sudden news.

"But how?! I've heard the cult was nothing but a small group of dissenters and rabble-rousers only popular in the countryside! Surely, to have subverted the entirety of Sossone is just…well, I-I can barely believe it!" Leona exclaimed shakily.

"Obviously, we have all underestimated the extent of the cult's influences, milady. It appears the cult had secretly gathered a significant following among our citizenry. Our scouts report that the entire city has joined in the rebellion, in addition to the great number of peasants from the outskirts," Girard reported stoically. If he was alarmed, then the Knight certainly did not show any sign of it. "Not only that, it is clear that the cult had been preparing for this occasion for the longest time. The rebels are well armed and supplied, and there are even rumors of them employing sorcery to overwhelm our garrisons."

Leona bit her lips in consternation, her eyes a whirlwind of fear and anxiety.

"What is my father doing about all this?" the princess asked at length. "What is his plan?"

"His Majesty has ordered all castle garrisons to man the walls," Girard replied. "I believe he intends to allow the rebels to tire themselves against the walls, and then take the fight to them along with the Royal Knights. It's a classic strategy when defending a fortified position against a numerically superior foe, milady."

"And do you think it'll work?"

Girard shrugged. "His Majesty seems confident in his abilities, and I am certainly not in the position to correctly assess his chances of success. But…"

"But?"

"Whatever our chances are, I believe our position in the keep is precarious one at best. We may have arms and discipline on our side, not to mention the advantage of defending a fortification, but the rebels still grossly outnumber us and could possibly use that factor overwhelm the defenders. Furthermore, because we do not yet have enough numbers to make a proper sortie, this siege may become protracted should the rebels simply choose to starve us out. Even if the reinforcements do arrive in the meantime, the rebels could simply seal the city gates and deny them entry." For the first time since he began to speak, the Knight allowed an uneasy look to creep onto his stern features. "Again, I do not have all the relevant facts at hand, but I can say for certain that we are not perfectly safe behind these walls."

Leona slowly nodded as she considered the Knight's report. As a veteran of many campaigns, Girard always offered a sound advice and opinion concerning warfare. If what he just told her was true….

"Then what do you suggest I do?" Leona asked.

"The King and his men will defend the castle, no matter the odds," Girard spoke slowly. "But you on the other hand, milady, still run a great risk just by remaining behind these walls. The cultists will very likely try to take you alive, and right now they do have a decent chance of achieving that very goal. I know this may be hard for you, but it is important you leave Sossone right away and seek shelter."

"Leave?!" Leona frowned. "But I just can't leave everyone behind here in danger! I have a responsibility as a princess—"

"Your responsibility, milady, is to rally our forces and recover what grounds we have lost so far," Girard said curtly, his voice a bit harsher than he had intended. "Should the keep fall, who then will live on to renew the kingdom? It is far important that you be away from here than to die a pointless martyr's death."

With that said, Girard deposited a small bag that had been looped around his shoulder next to the doorway.

"I had taken the liberty of packing a few of the things you might need until you reach safety. I recommend using the secret passageway by the cellars that exits near the western gate. I wouldn't think the rebels would suspect anyone to sneak past that area. For all they know, the royal keep is surrounded and the royal family trapped inside their cordon. I advise that you head for the nearest military outpost in Nantine and regroup our forces there."

A small part of her still protested, but a more logical side of Leona's mind slowly grasped at what truly needed to be done. She needed to consider the bigger picture, whether she liked it or not.

"Well then, I suppose….I must do what must be done," Leona took in a breath to calm herself down, without much success. "At least I'll feel a lot safer with you by my side, Girard."

"I'm afraid I will not be able to accompany you, milady," Girard said. "I must uphold my duty and oath as a Royal Knight to defend the king by his side. My place is with my brothers, with whom I shall ride into battle. You will need to make your way out of Sossone without an escort."

"All by myself?" Leona gaped in surprise. "I-I'm not sure if I can…Why I'll be discovered right away! Surely, the city's still crawling with the rebels! And who's going to protect me if you won't?"

"I've been watching your swordplay for a while now," Girard smiled faintly. "You're no sword-master yet, but you've been showing much promise in the field. I suppose it is fortunate that talent for martial arts runs in the royal blood. As long as you keep eyes open and head down, you'll be able to fend for yourself for a time being until you reach safety. Besides, most of the rebels will be concentrating their attacks on the main keep for now, which means you'll have less of them to worry about while out in the streets. "

Leona looked down uncertainly at an elegant rapier lying on the table, sheathed in a scabbard of plain but tough hardened leather. It was a reliable and well-used weapon, forged from the finest steel and honed to a razor edge. Unlike larger and heavier arming swords used by the Knights, the rapier relied more on the agility and dexterity of its wielder which suited Leona's slim physique quite well. She did spend a good amount of time practicing with it on the field with her instructors as a part of her exercise regimen. Still, princess could not help but think how paltry her skills were compared to those of the Ispellian Duelists hired on to teach her.

"I suggest you make all haste, milady. Though we will fight to defend the castle to the best of our abilities, it will only be a matter of time before the cultists tighten their grip over the city."

"But—"

"You are the kingdom's last chance," Girard spoke, his firm voice suddenly softening. "If we are to recover from the turmoil we're facing, you must stand at the head of the people and lead them back towards the right path. Only then will you finally truly end the cycle of oppression that had crippled this kingdom for decades. And you must do so not by your strength of arms, but by winning their hearts and minds."

"And how would I do that?" Leona whispered.

Girard smiled quietly. "Of that, milady, I am sure you are more than capable of learning on your own in the days to come. I have faith in it." With it, the Knight bowed, gave another reassuring smile, and turned around to depart.

"Girard!"

The Knight looked back to see the princess on her feet, her beautiful face pale and strained with sadness. Under the sunlight streaming in from the window, Leona looked both angelic and majestic, just like one of the maidens of legend who could inspire a thousand ballads and poems. But the otherworldly aura quickly dissipated as Girard blinked the light out of his eyes, leaving only the same lonely and vulnerable girl he had known for the longest time.

"By the royal authority vested in me, I order you to stay alive and rejoin me in the near future!" Leona spoke with all the regal solemnity she could muster up. "Can I trust you to fulfill it?"

With a click of his heels, the Knight saluted by banging his mailed fist against his chest. Then he was gone, a distant echo of his footsteps signaling his departure.

For a brief moment, Leona was tempted to run after him; her mind was nearly bursting with so many questions that would now go unanswered. Despite her status as a princess, Leona never felt more afraid as she did now. Her old way of life was crumbling around her, taken away in a sudden fell swoop; and for it all, she was not ready to be the beacon of strength and hope she needed to be! She did not know how to rule with proper wisdom, strengthen her people with the right words, or even settle petty disputes with discernment and prudence befitting a monarch. Girard was of course so much wiser than she was, and Leona needed men like him now more than ever. Why hadn't she spent more time with the Knight and broaden her horizons, instead of obsessing herself with pointless ceremonial routines like a parrot in a gilded cage?

But she would have plenty of time for regrets later; her immediate priority was to seek refuge outside Sossone. If what Girard had said was true, then her situation in the keep will only continue to deteriorate further. Snapping herself away from her thoughts, Leona immediately hurried out of her dress and donned on a long-sleeved cotton blouse, quilted leather vest that doubled as a light armor, tight fitting but comfortable breeches, and a pair of sturdy boots with durable soles—her typical getup for outdoor riding and fencing practices. She also pulled her lush hair back into a neat ponytail and tied it off with a leather thong. Leona proceeded to pack a few precious personal belongings into the satchel Girard had given her and finally, fixed her rapier securely to her hip.

Having gathered everything she needed, Leona took one last sweep around her room knowing she will not be returning here in the foreseeable future.

"I am the Princess of Elbion," she softly whispered to herself. "There is nothing I can't do, and no obstacle I cannot overcome." After a short prayer to the Light, the princess briskly took off towards the secret passageway, hidden in the lower levels of the keep that she knew by heart.

The castle appeared to be deserted at this point save for a few servants and soldiers making their way to unknown destinations. None of them seemed to pay any attention to the princess in their hurry; or perhaps it was just her rather plain attire that did the job. Still, Leona welcomed the absence of prying eyes, and was able to quickly make her way downwards through empty staircases and deserted corridors for the next several minutes. However, as she was about to pass through a fork some levels above the secret passageway, someone suddenly rushed into her path without warning.

Leona could not check her rapid pace in time. Her shoulder crashed into a metal surface with a painful thud, sending her almost stumbling to the floor. Only the princess's quick reflexes saved her from further harm. Leona quickly managed to spin up to her feet as her hand automatically darted down to grab her rapier, only to see a lone Guard scrambling up in front of her just as quickly.

The Guard was in fact a girl who looked to be around her age, with wide green eyes, slightly tanned skin, and a dirty blonde hair cut in a short bob. She was clad in the typical fashion befitting her station: a sturdy breastplate over a red-and gold tunic, tassets, breeches, hardened leather gloves, and sturdy boots. She was also wearing an open-faced burgonet helm that covered her skull down to the nape of her neck, and her hands were comfortably gripping a well-used glaive as tall as she was. Though well-armed, the Guard seemed nearly as startled as Leona upon seeing her.

"I-I'm sorry, milady!" the girl stuttered in panic, her face flushing. "I hadn't noticed…I mean, I couldn't—"

"What are you doing here, Guardswoman?" Leona asked sharply, her hand still placed on the hilt of her sword. "Shouldn't you be at your station?"

The girl faltered for a brief moment before finally regaining her composure.

"Sir Girard sent me, milady!" she replied crisply as she stood to attention. "I am to guard and safely escort you out of the city, and afterwards serve you in whatever manner you see fit!"

Despite the Guardswoman's youth, Leona still could see that her title was not undeserved; her well-built physique hinted at a great amount of harm she was capable of delivering, and her hardened eyes and expression belied years of hard training. The girl clearly knew what she was doing, and did it quite well. As ever, Girard had proven himself to be a good judge of character. Leona silently thanked the Knight for his thoughtful gesture.

"Very well," Leona said as she straightened up and took her hand off her rapier. "What is your name?"

"Alyce, milady. I'm a front-ranker of the War Hounds Regiment, most recently stationed at the royal barracks."

Leona nodded in appreciation of the Guardswoman's credentials. In a typical Guard regiment that fought in a dense rectangular formation, front-rankers were usually the bravest and the most skilled men who bore the initial brunt of the enemy assault. The War Hounds in particular was a regiment known to her, having accumulated many honors in wars past and present. To be a front-ranker in such a famous band….Leona felt a sudden relief at having been afforded such a capable bodyguard.

"Well, Alyce. You have my deepest gratitude for rendering your service to me," Leona smiled. "I look forward to getting to know you better as soon as we make our escape."

"My life is at your disposal, princess," Alyce bowed.

* * *

Despite their caution, Leona and her escort however found trouble sooner than they had expected. Not too far from their destination, they came to halt at the sight of three men lounging in front of the winery cellar, laughing bawdily at some joke that had passed between them. From their reddened cheeks and empty bottles lying discarded around their feet, Leona could easily guess their reasons for being here. Laughter ceased instantly at the sight of the princess, and the men half-staggered menacingly onto the path, their grins replaced by malicious leer. Two men, big thuggish brutes appearing to be stable grooms whom Leona had seen once or twice before, held a sturdy cudgel and an axe respectively; the third man, a lanky man with watery eyes and weak chin dressed in the livery of a palace servant, was clutching a sword, no doubt stolen from the palace armory.

"Move out of the way," Leona declared in her best imperious tone, though her voice still quavered a little. "You have no business being here! Shouldn't you be at the walls defending the castle?"

"We'll go wherever we want to go, lassie," the servant slurred. "Right now, we'd rather stick around and admire your pretty little face." The two stablemen snickered stupidly. Leona gawked in shock, while Alyce bristled and stepped forward brandishing her glaive.

"Mind your tongue, wretch, or I'll cut it out of your mouth myself! You'll mind your manners when speaking to your liege!" the Guard barked.

"Doesn't matter," giggled the servant, a mad light gleaming in his eyes. "Soon, master Trompeur will take us all in his embrace! And what better way to win his favor than to present him with the daughter of the tyrant-king?!"

Leona's blood ran cold. Though she now knew that Rionists had entrenched themselves deeper in the kingdom than she had previously believed, it had not occurred to her that even the most loyal servants might not be free from their influences. If so, then just how many of them were lying in wait at the keep even now, waiting to betray their masters?

"Come on now, I suggest you make this all easy and drop your weapons," the servant drawled. "That way we can all go happy…"

"Maybe we can have a little…_fun_ with them before we go?" one of the stableman grinned, revealing a row of blackened teeth. "The princess looks mighty fine, but I can settle for the sassy one, too!" the other stableman nodded eagerly and licked his lips lasciviously, sending a crawl of disgust up Leona's spine.

"Milady, I'm afraid there won't be an easy way out of this," Alyce growled, struggling to keep her rage in check. "We'll need to cut down these villains to make our escape. I can take them all easily, though you might want to keep your sword out just in case." The Guardswoman hefted her glaive into an aggressive stance.

"Huh? Oh, of course…" Leona dropped her satchel and shakily drew out her rapier, crouching down slightly with her right foot forward and her blade leveled. The prospect of actually using her blade to take another's life seemed a horrifying task. But then again, did she even have a choice?

"Well, well, looks like we'll have to do this the hard way!" the turncoat servant laughed. "Take them alive, boys, but cut their throats open if they resist!" The two thugs roared and ran forth, splitting up to take on each of the girls.

Alyce held her glaive up in a high guard above the brow so that the spiked butt of the weapon was pointing towards her enemy and the wicked blade rested over her left shoulder, poised for a powerful overhead swing. The first ruffian charged at her, shouting an incoherent war cry and wildly swinging his crude cudgel. Alyce calmly waited until the brute was almost upon her, then stepped aside and thrust past his guard into an unprotected face. The sharp spike punctured the man's right eye with a sick squelch and the stableman reeled back, dropping his club and clutching his ruined face in pain. Without a moment's hesitation, Alyce swung down her glaive hard and split open her enemy's skull.

Meanwhile, the second man lunged at Leona and swung his axe towards her neck, prompting the princess to nimbly jump back to avoid the killing stroke. Despite her lack of real fighting experience, fencing reflexes honed by long hours of practice instantly took over. Falsely sensing advantage, the stableman laughed in triumph as he raised his weapon overhead to deliver another swing. Seeing an opening, Leona lunged forward and quelling all feelings of revulsion inside her, thrust her rapier through the man's belly. The man's eyes bulged as he stared dumbly at the blade buried in him, blood starting to trickle down from his mouth. The brute however still staggered forward with a pained roar, pulling the blade deeper inside him in order to close in. Grimacing, Leona swiftly kicked the man away from him, pulling her sword out from his abdomen in the process. She thrust once more before her enemy could recover, this time slicing open the jugular vein on his neck. The man collapsed to the floor gurgling and clutching his throat helplessly as his blood quickly spilled across the corridor.

The turncoat servant stepped forward as if to make a stand, only for his nerve to fail him as Alyce rushed forward. In his panic, the man discarded his stolen sword and turned around to flee. But Alyce was faster; steel blade encountered unarmored flesh in a downward diagonal stroke, and the glaive cleanly severed the man's right leg just above his knee. The man crumpled forward, screaming wildly in terrible agony as he tried to staunch the flow of his blood in vain. Alyce menacingly loomed over him, her face a mask of disgust and anger.

"Mercy!" the servant half-screamed, half-cried, his earlier swagger replaced by sheer terror.

"You've sealed your fate the moment those foul words left your mouth, dog," Alyce snarled and stabbed down to finish off the servant's miserable life.

Leona was still standing rooted to her spot when Alyce returned to her. Her rapier dangling limply from her hand, the princess was staring down her dead foe with wide eyes.

"I-I have never killed anyone before," Leona's voice was strained and high-pitched. Her fingers slowly closed around the hilt of her sword, squeezing so hard her hand began to tremble.

"All this time, I thought my swordplay was only for exercise and games, but this…this is just—"

"You have my deepest sympathies, milady. The first time is of course always the hardest," Alyce said in a low voice. "But we can't be dallying here much longer. This whole place could be completely overrun in a matter of hours. It's important that we get you as far away from the keep as possible."

"Yes…Of course," Lena slowly shook herself out of the daze, though still looking shaken. "Let us hurry. The secret passageway is just around the corner, if I remember correctly."

Leona sheathed her rapier after quickly wiping it clean against the dead stableman's shirt, and picking up her satchel, briskly jogged ahead with Alyce in tow.

* * *

Carnage unfolded in the castle courtyard as the mob spilled past the ruined gates. With ululating screams and curses upon their lips, the former citizens of Sossone threw themselves onto the waiting defenders with wild abandon. Most were poorly armed with cudgels, knives, and axes, while some wielded spears pilfered from the fallen garrison. Very few of them were wearing any sort of armor to protect themselves. The fact did not diminish their bloodlust in the least, however.

Several royal Guard regiments were arrayed in tight formations to meet the assault, their pikes and polearms leveled forward to present a deadly wall of blades. Many rebels impaled themselves on the spear wall in their reckless charge, but more forced their way into the gaps in between to close in with their opponents. Fierce melee erupted across the courtyard as the Guardsmen struggled to hold back the surging mob. Frantic commands, screams of the wounded, and drumbeats were quickly all but lost under the ear-numbing cries of the crowd baying for blood and death.

Great explosions of fire and thunder tore through the mob, providing a brief respite for the beleaguered Guardsmen. A number of court Wizards stepped forward behind the regiments, muttering incantations that sent sorcerous projectiles through the ranks. Having long honed their deadly arts within the hallowed halls of the Royal Academy of Magic, these venerable magic-users now directed their arcane knowledge against those who had challenged the authority of their patron. Orbs of fire as big as a man's head consumed flesh and cloth alike in fiery delight, while heavens themselves opened up to send down bolts of lightning that charred men to their bones.

Still, the mob refused to break.

Like a tidal wave retreating only to return with doubled strength, the rebels surged forwards once more with fanaticism that dwarfed their previous efforts. Slowly, the regiments were forced to give ground and retreat back towards the keep. One of the center pike squares failed to keep pace with the other retreating regiments, leaving their flanks vulnerable to attack. The mob promptly surrounded the isolated Guardsmen and butchered them to the last man before they could adopt a defensive formation.

The drawbridge of the keep slowly lowered with a screech, and the first rank of the Royal Knights galloped forth into the fight, their ornate full plate armor gleaming under the sun. Charging through the gap created by the lost regiment, the armored horsemen rammed into the rebel ranks with a titanic force. Scores were thrown off their feet, trampled under the heavy hooves, or killed outright by the deadly lances splintering from the force of the impact. Discarding their ruined lances, the knights took up their arming swords and flanged maces to continue their onslaught, sundering bones and parting flesh. King Philippe rode amidst the tight cordon of his bodyguards, laughing raucously as he cut down men and women who had once been his subjects. The rebels did not part before the charge, however, and quickly rushed forth to fill the gap.

Girard remained in mournful silence as he cut down yet another ruffian with his arming sword. The rebel citizens milling around him lacked any sort of martial expertise, their overwhelming numbers being their only virtue. Still, the Knight took no pleasure in his slaughter. These people had once been fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons who could've been content to lead peaceful and ordered lives in another time, under a different king. Their humble services and sacrifices were what had really been keeping the kingdom together so far, not the strengths of arms or the forceful personality of their ruler. To treat them in this way was monstrous, a heinous act that went against his vow as a Knight of Elbion.

The bloodthirsty mob that beset him now were no longer the proud people of Elbion, however, but a collective whose single-minded hatred and savagery made them little more than animals. No, it was more than that, Girard realized with a start as he hacked away a hand clutching a rusty cleaver. Under any other circumstances, the rebels would not have stood so resolutely against the charging Knights or the sorcerous barrages. Even the bravest men would blanch or at least falter at the prospect of their imminent deaths. There were, however, absolutely no visible signs of fear amongst the crowd. To the contrary, the mob continued to attack ferociously without a sense of preservation, expressions of murderous fury and even rapturous joy etched on their faces as they met their demise. It was as if their zealotry had taken a life of its own, consuming the rebels and slowly shaping them into something…else. Though Girard could not fathom it, he knew there was something utterly vile at work inside these men. Only at that moment did the Knight realize that despite their advantages in arms, the defenders in the end stood no chance against the endless tide of foes who knew no fear. Several Knights had already been swallowed up by the mob, dragged down by the sheer weight of citizens stubbornly clinging onto their armored limbs and mounts. Girard saw one of the King's bodyguards fall when a rebel leapt off from another man's shoulders and tackled the Knight bodily from his saddle.

Still, Girard could not blame the rebels for the impending doom. Long years of tyrannical oppression were what had forced the hapless citizens to take this dark path, to flock to the dangerous promises of power when no other help was forthcoming. The fault lay entirely with the King, who had been so blind to the struggles of his people until it was too late. Despite his oaths of allegiance, Girard could not help but cast a dark look towards his liege lord who enjoyed taking lives so casually.

"A ruler who puts himself before his people…does not deserve his throne," he muttered to himself.

_No, _Girard quickly chastised himself. The fault did not lay entirely with the king; those nearest to him, including his Knights, who could've done something but didn't were equally guilty. He himself wasn't free from the crime, either. And now, they were all going to pay the ultimate price for their silence.

_Not just yet, _Girard firmly reminded himself as he fell more rebels with deft strokes from his sword. He could care less if he lost his life at the hands of this rabble. He was a Knight of the kingdom, and it would be an honorable fate to die on the battlefield with a weapon in his hand. But he still had one last duty to fulfill for his liege—not Philippe, but for Princess Leona. If Elbion was to survive the coming storm, then the princess was its last remaining hope. And for the sake of the princess, it was imperative that he buy enough time for her to reach safety. _After that, he could die a little more easily._

Girard smiled, his purpose as a Knight having been rekindled anew. He gripped his sword tighter and spurred his destrier to charge further into the heart of the growing mob, a fierce war cry ringing from behind his visor.

"For Elbion!"


	5. Chapter 2: The Forging of Oaths

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Fire Emblem.

**Important Notice: If you wish to submit your own OCs, then by all means do so via PMs. Better yet, contact me if you want to contribute and I can assign you with a character type I'll be needing soon in the next few chapters.**

As always, constructive criticisms will be much appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Forging of Oaths**

_Princess Leona and Alyce, having dealt with the traitors, successfully escaped from the besieged royal keep. Before them now lies the daunting task of fleeing the city of Sossone and the wrath of the Rionist rebels… _

* * *

The sun dipped towards the horizon having just finished its daily course across the sky. Its vermillion rays were matched by flames from below that had consumed a great part of Sossone. The day was yet to have seen its full share of violence, however.

Far from prying eyes, a rusting sewer grate behind the western quadrant guardhouse began to wriggle. The grate fell open with a gentle _pop_ after a few tries, and a helmeted head slowly emerged out from the hole. After a quick look around, Alyce roughly deposited her glaive onto the street and heaved herself up.

"All clear, milady. There seems to be no one around here," Alyce muttered as she stooped towards the sewer hole.

Princess Leona gratefully took the Guard's proffered hand and scrambled out into the open air. After suffering the stench for that long, she was very glad to be out of the sewers at last.

"If memory serves me right, the western gate should be no more than a few blocks away from here," Leona said as she shook off some grimy dirt from her hair. "With luck, we could make it outside the city undetected."

"With all due respect, milady," Alyce replied, "I suggest we stop by the city barracks first and see if we can find a few horses. On foot, we'll be caught out in the open should the rebels see us and give chase. Besides, we'll be able to secure additional supplies we need for the journey ahead."

"Sounds like a good idea," Leona said after a moment's consideration. "But what if the rebels are already at the barracks? What then?"

"We'll know for sure only after we check it out," Alyce shrugged. "We'll need to approach carefully so no one will see us coming. If it's too heavily fortified, we'll try our luck elsewhere. If there are only a few, I'll be more than happy to take the place myself."

"I'm feeling optimistic already," Leona laughed. "Very well, that is exactly what we'll do. Could you take point, Alyce?"

The Guardswoman grinned fiercely. "With pleasure, milady."

* * *

The two girls emerged from the alley into a charnel house.

The once pristine streets of Sossone had been turned into a nightmarish tableau. Several buildings were going up in flames and smoke; discarded flowers, pieces of smashed carts, and broken masonry adorned the cobblestones in a bizarre mosaic; fruits and sweetmeats spilled from overturned vendors quivered under the breeze; and as far as eyes could see, the streets were covered with bodies of both soldiers and civilians slaughtered during the rampage. The stench of blood and rot were overwhelming. Swarms of flies and rats were already gathering to gorge on the dead.

"By the Sacred Light…!" Alyce cursed as she clamped her nose with a gloved hand. Only a horrified moan escaped from Leona's stupefied lips.

The Princess and her bodyguard carefully picked their way through the carnage, their dread steadily growing with every step. There was no way to avert the hellish sight no matter where they turned. Some parts of the street were so packed with bodies there were barely any clear spots to step into. Too many dead faces stared up into the uncaring sky, their expressions of agony and terror forever frozen in death. What horrified the girls the most, however, was that the slaughter had been utterly indiscriminate. The victims were women, children, men, and the elderly; richly dressed city officials and merchants lay alongside innkeepers, bakers and washerwomen. To their right, a body of a priest swung from a half-demolished statue, his withered form charred and twisted by fire. Where birth had set them apart in life, everyone ultimately became equal in death.

Alyce felt her stomach churn with disgust. As an experienced Guard, she was certainly no stranger to the violence of war. She had been in enough battles to become accustomed to sights of dead and dying men. But the soldiers at least died good deaths with weapons in their hands. No one could ever steel his mind against the wholesale killing of civilians. She could almost feel the horror and despair lingering in the air here, as if restless spirits were refusing to move on from their untimely deaths. Even a seasoned campaigner as herself could go mad if he saw what she saw now for too long. The quicker they could leave this behind, the better.

Alyce stole a quick glance backwards. Princess Leona had been surprisingly quiet so far, although her expressions told volumes. Her face had become taut and paler than usual, and her panicked eyes were darting rapidly like a rabid maniac. She flinched and shivered every time she unwittingly trod on a stiff limb. _It's probably too much to take in on one day_, Alyce thought to herself, _especially for someone who had just lost everything_. Despite her pity, the Guard however could not help but feel a twinge of contempt towards the Princess Leona. Everything about her told of years of easy living, free from everyday woes of the common people. Her straight back, silky hair, clear white skin, clipped accent, and those dainty hands uncalloused by a hard day's work…a far cry from Alyce's own rugged appearance. Was this weak and spoiled dame really the heir to the royal throne? If the sight of blood shook her so easily, then how could the Princess ever going to endure through the rough days ahead?

Alyce suddenly realized she could no longer hear the Princess following her. Looking back, she saw Leona lingering by the side of the street, blankly staring at a building wall in front of her. The Guard sighed inwardly as she strode back towards her liege. All this madness must've stolen her wits away. Alyce wondered if she would need to drag the Princess away by force.

"We shouldn't dawdle, milady! We must hurry if we are to…" Alyce trailed off as she realized what Leona was looking at.

Propped against the wall was a body of a young woman curled up in a fetal position. Anyone could tell she wasn't from a wealthy family just by looking at her shabby cotton dress and stained head-scarf. Errant blonde tresses draped over her tightly closed eyes like lank seaweed. But what really caught her sight was the sight of a small infant, looking no more than a few months old, nestled tightly in her dying embrace. _Were they siblings?_ Alyce wondered, but quickly revised her opinion. From the desperate tightness of her embrace, it was far more likely that the baby was the young woman's. Judging by the cruel wounds on them, it was clear that both the mother and child had been killed deliberately. Stains of dried tears still marked the woman's face. Alyce could easily picture the mother begging desperately to save the life of her baby, only to learn to her horror that no mercy was forthcoming. The Guard swallowed a lump forming in her throat. Of all the tragedies she had been witness to, this surely was the most heartbreaking of them all.

Leona suddenly crouched down and gently pried open the dead woman's hand which, Alyce realized, was tightly grasping a small object. It was a brass pendant stylized into the shape of a blazing sun—a cheap trinket commonly carried by the worshippers of the Light. The woman had gripped it so tight that it had begun to dig into the palm of her hand. The Princess picked up the pendant and slowly stood back up, her eyes fixed upon this token of faith.

"This isn't right."

Alyce stared. There was a sudden steely edge to Leona's voice, brimming with righteous fury and authority that took the Guard by surprise.

"This is no revolution! They claim to stand for the people and yet murder the ones they're supposed to protect! How is this order? How is this prosperity? How are they even different from my father underneath what ideas they have?" Leona's voice swelled into a passionate pitch."

"But, milady…" Alyce began.

Leona sharply turned towards her. "Are you going to defend them, too?" she snarled.

Alyce flinched involuntarily. The frail civilian she had been babysitting had all but disappeared. The Princess's face was simply smoldering with an incandescent—even murderous—rage that could tame wild beasts into submission. She recognized that look: it was exactly the same expression on King Philippe's face whenever he threw himself into the heat of battle. Alyce fearfully kept her mouth shut, fully knowing that this war maiden could easily kill her on the spot if she wished it. What seemed like eternity passed before Leona's ardor cooled, and the fearsome warrior retreated once more behind her noble visage.

"I will return here someday," Leona spoke with weary determination. "No matter how long it takes, I shall do what is right and return to my people the peace that they truly deserve." Leona adroitly fastened the sun pendant around her neck before stepping off towards the street.

"Let us be on our way, Alyce. The barracks can't be far off now, can it?" she called out nonchalantly as if nothing had ever happened. Alyce dumbly took off after the Princess and let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Where in hell did that come from?!" the Guard whispered to herself in amazement. Her initial impression had obviously been wrong. Perhaps there was a good reason why Princess Leona was a royalty and she was a commoner, after all.

A fresh breeze swept down the street, kicking up clouds of dust and rustling the quiet dead. Awash with the rising smell of ashes and rot, the two girls could hear the echoing cries from a distant battle.

"It sounds like the battle at the keep is growing fierce," Leona muttered. "I hope Sir Girard is alright. I know he is a worthy Knight, but if the Rionists are attacking in force…"

"Have faith, milady. If anyone can survive this mess it'll be Sir Girard," Alyce said. "At any rate, I don't think that noise was coming from the keep." The Guard slipped off her helmet and cocked her head. "I think it's actually coming from somewhere ahead of us."

A triumphant roar rang through the air once more and the coin dropped at once.

"The barracks," Leona and Alyce said simultaneously.

* * *

Martin de Massey was having a very bad day.

Everything had started out so promising. He had spent the better part of the morning at the races and the jousting games, where he nearly doubled a month's wages on a lucky bet. Then, he had spent hours drinking and feasting at his favorite tavern with his comrades from the patrol brigade, where boisterous toasts were made and oaths of friendship renewed. To top it all, he just couldn't resist an inviting glance from a coy barmaid whose corset was big but not big enough. The subsequent frolicking nearly made him miss the parade, and Martin had managed to join the column at the last minute near the very back.

Perhaps it had been that delay that saved his life when all hell broke loose. While the Rionists descended on the parade column and slaughtered his comrades, Martin had been allowed just enough time to make a quick tactical assessment. And so, like any sensible soldier would do in this sort of situation, he had decided to head back to the barracks and ride out this mayhem until everything blew over. Not everything had gone his way though. Amidst this sudden collapse of visible command chain, it seemed that Martin's desperate attempt to reach safety had bestowed a mantle of ad-hoc leadership upon him. Before long, he somehow found himself leading a small group of surviving Soldiers and city watchmen following in his wake.

Martin looked disdainfully over his men arrayed in front of him—a ragtag band of confused and terrified losers who were more used to patrolling the streets than actual fighting. If it hadn't been for them he would have hidden himself away already, safe from prying eyes. Having all these men around, on the other hand, was only going to bring unwanted attention from the roving rebels. But then again, how could he possiblly jeopardize his reputation as a nobleman and coldly abandon these wretches? Worst comes to worst, perhaps he could place the soldiers between himself and whoever was trying to cut him to pieces.

_If they were hoping for an inspirational leader, they are in for a nasty surprise, _Martin thought wryly.

Still, extra bodies had been immensely helpful in closing off the barrack gates and piling up a makeshift barricade upon the ramparts for a possible assault. The city barracks had been built with low but sturdy wooden walls and gate of iron bars so that even if the rest of the city fell to the enemy, the soldiers stationed inside it could effectively resist for an extended period of time. That is, provided that the defenses were properly manned and discipline was vigilantly maintained. Though the survivors had been stationed evenly across the ramparts and in front of the main gate, it was nowhere near enough. Martin had been praying that the rebels would just miss them entirely.

The sight of a mob gathering outside the gates told him that wasn't going to happen.

Martin cursed inwardly as he mulled over what options he had. The Dragoon was a gangly young man with unruly reddish-brown hair, light green eyes, and a dash of freckles on his nose and cheeks. A breastplate, tassets, gauntlets and greaves fitted him well, as did his burgonet helmet that he currently hung on his saddle with his small shield and a sheathed arming sword. The shaft of a heavy cavalry spear protruded from where he had stuck it blade-first into the ground next to him. Pierre, his bay horse, whinnied and pawed at the ground as if he had sensed the imminent trouble.

In his more confident days, Martin would also count his caustic wit and carefree attitude as valuable assets, but none of them seemed of much help now. The odds stacked against him piled higher and higher by the minute, and he didn't like it one bit. Martin looked down and saw his hands trembling again. The Dragoon reached down into his saddlebag, took out a worn metal flask, and took a long swig. The familiar sensation of the fiery liquid rushing down his throat was at once comfortable and shameful. Oh well, as long as it made him feel calm again…

The crowd had grown bigger by now. Martin counted through the irons bars at least forty rebels wielding an assortment of weapons. Easily twice their number, though against the undertrained men under his impromptu command they might as well have been a thousand. Martin buckled the helmet strap under his chin and strapped the small shield to his left forearm with practiced ease. Whatever was about to happen, it always paid to be prepared in full.

Fearful whispers began to ripple through the defenders as nerves began to fray. Urgent voices and frightened looks were exchanged like currency; some men even turned and looked helplessly towards Martin for some direction. Morale was plummeting even before fighting even began.

"I didn't sign up for this," a watchman standing closest to Martin muttered breathlessly. "They told me all I had to do was to chase after pickpockets. There was no mention of fighting madmen!"

"They're demons, I tell you!" his companion said, trembling with fear. "I heard they're cannibals, too! Tore up the patrol brigade, cut them into pieces, and ate their-"

"That's enough from you two!" Martin scolded the pair, though he barely kept his own voice from shaking. "They're all nothing but lies and nonsense! Do you want to bring drag all us down with your cowardice?!"

All eyes in the barracks were now fixed on him. Taken by a sudden inspiration, Martin decided to draw on some theatrical skills he had picked up in his childhood. If he was ever going to get out of here in one piece, then his men at least needed to be roused into something resembling courage.

"Don't be cowed by those…savages! They may look tough, but they are really no more than tavern brawlers!" Martin shouted with an appropriate élan. "We must stand firm, boys! Close your ranks and present arms! Show no weakness, and these rabble-rousers won't dare attack us! Come on now, hurry!"

Under Martin's incessant nagging, the motley group of defenders slowly achieved some semblance of cohesion. Those armed with bows notched their arrows and looked out sharply from the ramparts, while the men stationed at the gate formed a passable wall of shield and spears. Emboldened by the progress, Martin decided to push his rhetoric further. Fueled by liquid courage, the Dragoon was about to launch into a fanciful speech about honor when the mob suddenly did something completely unexpected: they began to laugh.

Martin's blood ran cold. Their laughter was not one of merriment as often heard in taverns and plays. Nor was it laced with ridicule and contempt, like the laughter of a noble directed at his dim-witted serf. The mob in front of him instead laughed with undisguised malice, much like predatory monsters that toyed with their prey before devouring them. It was almost as if the cultists already believed without a doubt that they were going to kill every single man defending the barracks. In all, that hellish laughter was a terror tactic at its very best.

"Steady now, men," Martin muttered faintly. "Steady—"

"Wait! Wait!"

A commotion on the walls grabbed his attention. One of the city watchmen on the ramparts had completely lost his head. Throwing off his weapons, the crazed man frantically climbed over the wall and ran raving towards the cultists before anyone could stop him.

"Wait! I surrender! I surrender!" the watchman cried hysterically. "I'm one of you now! I'm a Rionist! Long live the revolution! Long live the Prophet!"

No sooner had he reached the crowd than a dozen of hands seized the watchman and pulled him to the ground. His terrified scream was quickly cut short as the cultists simply tore him into pieces. Severed limbs were openly displayed above the mob, and baying howls of triumph floated back to the stunned defenders.

Martin sighed and buried his head in his hand. "Idiot."

Stirred by the sight of spilt blood, the cultists surged towards the walls in an unstoppable frenzy. The Soldiers stood frozen to the spot, numbed by the recent event to do anything.

"Brace and ready to address!" Martin shouted in panic. "Come on! Snap out of it, you morons! Do you want to end up like that poor sucker out there?!"

His last comment roused the defenders once more into action. First arrows from the ramparts thumped into the crowd and claimed the first casualties. As the cultists hit the gates en masse, the waiting Soldiers rushed up and repeatedly thrust their spears through the bars in a desperate fury. Several overzealous Militiamen, already pushed forward by those crowding from behind, slumped with numerous impaling wounds. Wordless shouts and screams echoed into the evening sky. Those stationed on the stockade, meanwhile, became embroiled in a fierce melee with the cultists who had found purchase upon the wall. A few Soldiers toppled wordlessly from the ramparts, slain by axes thrown up from below.

Safely protected behind the line of men, Martin trotted up and down anxiously while observing the flow of the battle. So far, the mob was uselessly clawing against the walls while the defending Soldiers reaped an impressive tally. Only very few cultists had cleared the ramparts, only to be dispatched by men who fought like cornered rats. _Who knew fear could be such a motivator, _Martin thought to himself. _Every man out there was fighting like Karmane himself! _Unless the rebels brought up heavier equipment or Light forbid, a spell-caster, the defenders of the barracks might just hold them back.

As if to taunt Martin's beliefs, the Soldiers crowding around the gate suddenly fell back in panic, reeling from an unseen enemy. The Dragoon craned his neck just in time to see a makeshift battering ram slam against the gate. A loud ominous _crack _echoed from the rattling gate, but the iron bars held. Undaunted, the ram and its bearers scrambled back for a return blow.

"Hold! Hold!" Martin shouted. "There's no way they can breach-"

The second blow from the ram knocked the gate clear from its hinges and sent it toppling onto the ground. Wildly cheering cultists came streaming into the breach and clashed against the tottering line of defenders. Robbed of their security, the soldiers fought bravely to no avail. One by one, the last loyalist garrison in Sossone fell under the merciless assault of the Rionists. No quarters were given, for every blood spilled this night was a tribute to the bright future of the regime. The few Soldiers stationed furthest away from the fight immediately scaled over the walls and fled.

As his men died all around him, Martin desperately looked for a way out. He could not retreat further into the barracks and entrap himself; nor could he force his way through the gates. He could always attempt to scale the wall like others, but there was no way he was going to leave his precious Pierre to the mercy of the Rionists. Despite his expedient attitude towards friendship, the bond between him and the faithful steed was inviolable. Wracked with frustration, Martin snatched up his flask with his trembling fingers and took what could possibly be his very last drink.

There was only one course of action open to him.

"Argh, screw it!" he cried and tucked his long spear securely under his arm. "This is for ruining my day off, you gutless whoresons! Hiyah!"

Feeling the blood pump furiously under his reddening face, Martin spurred his horse and charged headlong into the incoming mob.

* * *

"We should be careful, milady."

Safely hidden behind an abandoned cart, Leona and her bodyguard watched the rebel mob surge against the barrack walls. The beleaguered defenders fought furiously, but the sight of the battering ram quickly turned the tide of battle.

"Draw too many of them away too soon, and they will surely overwhelm us," Alyce muttered. "We should wait until the defenders have thinned down their ranks a little more."

"But we can't just sit here and let those Soldiers fight by themselves!" Leona exclaimed. Though the defenders on the walls were exacting steady toll on the rebels, it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke through the gates. "There has to be something we can do…"

As on cue, the battering ram finally cracked open the barrack gate and opened a breach for the gleeful cultists. Cries of joy from the mob met by despairing shouts from within.

"We go now," Leona said determinedly. "There is no longer any time to waste!"

"By your will, milady," Alyce replied with a nod. "Please stick closely behind me and keep those beasts off my back."

Drawing out their weapons, the two girls strode out towards the breached gate. Most of the cultists had poured into the barracks by now, leaving only a few men behind. Upon spotting Leona and her bodyguard, the rebels rushed out to meet them with vicious cries. Despite their ferocity, their fighting skills seemed little better than the servants who had attacked them in the keep. Alyce hefted her glaive confidently and marched forward in a steady beat. Leona came close behind her, sticking closely to Alyce's armored back.

The first Militiaman lunged at Alyce wildly and swung his hammer down towards her head. The Guardswoman locked the strike with the haft of her polearm, pushed forward, and twisted the glaive left to pin the thug's weapon aside. Having ruined his blow, Alyce then lashed out her booted foot into the Militiaman's groin. The unfortunate man howled in pain and doubled up, only to receive a finishing blow to the back of his head. A second Militiaman darted to the right and lunged into Alyce's exposed flank with his pilfered spear. But Leona was already prepared for him. With a graceful lunge, the Princess ducked under the rebel's reach and cut open his throat. Both to her relief and disgust, killing came much easier to her the second time around. _Remember the mother and her child_, Leona thought to herself. _Every stroke she cut was for the innocent who had lost their lives this day. _

The three remaining rebels were more cautious. A single pot-bellied cultist attempted to hold Alyce's attention with his long spear while his axe-wielding cronies each came at her from the flanks. Alyce, already wise to the trick, took the initiative. Leveling her glaive, she immediately charged the man with the spear in front of her. Taken by surprise, the Militiaman scrambled back a few steps in panic before the blade sank into his flaccid belly. Wrenching clear of the falling man, Alyce then swung a deadly arc and cut a bloody trench across the second man's chest. By that time, Leona had dispatched the last rebel with a series of well-placed stabs.

Further down the walls, a few surviving defenders were scrambling down the stockade in a bid to escape the rampaging cultists.

"You there! Hold, in the name of the King!" Leona shouted. "I order you to stop and fall in behind me!"

The soldiers barely spared a glance at the girls before fleeing out of their sight as fast as their legs could carry them.

"Cowards!" Alyce yelled, brandishing her glaive. "Spineless weaklings! Wait until I get my hands on you-"

"Let them go, Alyce. There's nothing we can do to rally those men," Leona said icily. "But there may still be a few brave souls fighting for their lives inside. Let us hurry before they are overwhelmed!"

Alyce and Leona charged into the barrack courtyard into what was quickly becoming a one-sided battle. Most of the defenders had already fallen under the initial onslaught, and those remaining weren't faring much better. Some cultists had broken off from the fight to loot the fallen bodies for trophies, so confident were they of their impending victory. The only effective resistance was coming from a lone Dragoon surrounded a group of spear-wielding rebels. Judging by the number of fallen enemies around the rider, the Militiamen weren't entirely having it their way.

Alyce tore into the scattered mob with brutal efficiency. The first cross-eyed cultist they encountered had just enough time to look up from looting a corpse before losing his lower jaw to an upward stroke. His partner was quicker and managed to leap up with a dagger in his hand. A returning blow caught him squarely across his crown, instantly felling him like a tree. His dying scream however, drew the attention of his numerous comrades. Incensed by this sudden intrusion, a dozen or more cultists converged on the Princess and the Guard with murderous intent. Their bloodied weapons glinted balefully under the dying sunlight.

"Let us fight back to back, milady. That way, we can keep our eyes on every single one of them," Alyce exclaimed. Leona quickly shifted her position and steeled herself, glaring defiantly at the cultists rapidly surrounding them. Few tense seconds later, the first pair of men detached themselves from the mass and hurtled forth towards their intended victims.

"For the mother and her child!" Leona shouted and plunged once more into the fray.

* * *

A spear shot up towards his thigh and skittered off his tassets with a shower of sparks.

"Bastard!" Martin cried, and buried his sword deep into the offending Militiaman's chest. The unexpected weight of the man's body nearly snatched the weapon from his grip, throwing the Dragoon off his balance. Seeing opportunity, a scrawny man with too many scars on his face darted in with his sword aimed towards the exposed armpit. Martin panicked and kicked his spurs hard. Pierre reared and immediately took off across the courtyard, ramming aside the attacker with his equine bulk. The momentum finally tugged Martin's sword clear from the corpse, and the Dragoon found himself riding clear of his foes.

. Martin scowled as he looked back to see the Militiamen running after him. These cultists were persistent, if nothing else. If the Soldiers had shown this much enthusiasm he wouldn't be in such a tight spot in the first place! He stole a quick glance around the courtyard, and noticed two strange girls fighting the rest of the rebel forces. _So, there was actually someone dumb enough to get involved in this mess? _Martin shrugged. If some idiots wanted to play heroic martyrs, who was he to deny them their wish? Besides, their intervention could possibly buy him enough time to make a clear getaway once the thugs on his tail were dealt with…!

Inspired by the idea, Martin sheathed his sword and picked up the long spear he had stowed away across his saddle. It was already well-blooded from use, small cracks showing in the shaft after numerous charges made earlier. It would be good for maybe three charges, four tops. Charging at full speed towards infantry ranks was an effective terror tactic if performed right. Martin had seen entire veteran regiments break and flee from the mere sight of armored Knights bearing down on them. And for all their bloodlust, he was sure the cultists weren't made of sterner stuff than those proper fighting men.

Martin steadied his spear under his arm and spurred Pierre into a gallop towards the approaching Militiamen. He felt the war horse heave with exhaustion beneath him and hoped to Light the steed wouldn't fail his rider. The first cultist was so close now that Martin could see the man's rheumy eyes widen with fear. _Too late_, Dragoon chuckled, and shifted his spear to aim for the Militiaman's shoulder. Six and a half feet of wood and tapered steel rammed into the cultist in a heartbeat, smashing his collarbone to bits and spinning him violently around as the horse tackled past him. The long spear ripped through one more man before becoming tightly wedged in a sternum. Martin automatically let the weapon go and drew out his sword to hack at any enemies within his reach.

"Had enough yet?" he yelled at the reeling cultists. Apparently, they had: the remaining Militiamen around him were breaking off and running towards the distant gate. Despite their fervor, fear found purchase in their hearts just like for any other ordinary mortals. Out of spite, Martin loudly whistled twice in rapid succession. Pierre immediately bucked, and two strong, horseshoed hooves lashed out at a cultist passing behind him. The man's broken body rammed into the barrack wall seconds later with a sickening thud.

A hysterical laughter rolled out from Martin as he struggled to catch his breath. _He was still alive_. Against all odds, he was somehow still alive! The same couldn't be said about his men though. From what he could see, it was clear that every single one of them had either been killed or fled into the city beyond, leaving him as the only survivor. Was it sheer luck, or was there a higher power above him looking out for his safety? _It certainly hadn't been cowardice that saved my life_, Martin thought to himself, his throat suddenly tightening at an unpleasant memory. _He hadn't abandoned his post and fought well; so if he chose to make his getaway now, no one could shame him out of taking an opportunity he had rightfully earned! _The Dragoon shook his head and gently spurred his horse towards the ruined gate. The remaining cultists, busy in their fight against the two strangers, weren't paying any attention to his approach. The way was completely clear for him to slip away unnoticed.

Curiosity still compelled Martin to take a parting glance at the girls who were enabling his escape. His eyes glanced over the muscular Guardswoman dishing out cruel punishments to whoever got within the reach of her glaive. _Just another average grunt laying down her life for the kingdom, _Martin casually dismissed her as he took another sip from his flask. _She's probably a nobody who won't even be missed, her and that willowy blonde friend of hers who for some reason looks a lot like Princess-" _

Martin de Massey did an impressive spit-take as his jaw dropped open.

* * *

Leona ducked and weaved as a cultist clumsily swung his axe above her head. Recovering fast, she sliced her blade into the back of the Militiaman's exposed upper arm and ruined a major tendon. The mangled limb fell slack to the man's side with his weapon still clutched in his hand, and the Princess promptly delivered a coup-de-grace into the vulnerable jugular vein. Stunned disbelief washed over the cultist's face as he fell onto the ground in his own flowing vitae._ Stay focused_,Leona reminded herself_. _The trick of fencing was not how hard you stabbed, but _where_. Most duels were ended by very few jabs applied strategically into the sweet spots dispersed around the human body. And in order to deliver a precise blow in the exact right place, according to Leona's instructors, one must move quickly and reposition himself every second. A cut here severed the ankle tendons and crippled the enemy; a causal nick of an artery could drain a man of his blood within seconds; an opportune slash across the wrist disarmed most opponents. As in all things, what mattered most in swordplay was location, location, and location.

Whereas Leona was an elegant fencer, Alyce was a brawler. The Guardswoman simply met her foes with brute force, breaking bones and rending flesh with steady swings from her glaive. She also wasn't above using her elbows, feet, knees, and occasional head-butts to dispatch those who managed to get too close. The cultists, confident from their victory over demoralized Soldiers, found a much deadlier opponent in Alyce. Against her superior training and discipline, their numbers counted for very little. The longer reach of her glaive, too, leveled the playing field. Armed with simple clubs, knives, and short spears, the Militiamen quickly learned not to rush at her recklessly, allowing Alyce to make the first moves. A large number of bodies soon littered the ground around her.

Straightening up after hamstringing a charging cultist, Leona felt a large shadow fall across her. A huge man with a bushy beard and a bald head was striding boldly up to her. His barrel chest was clad in a blacksmith's leather apron, upon which a sigil shaped like a single red eye was daubed with dried blood. The man's bull-like neck was tight with thick veins, and his bloodshot eyes burned with unrestrained fervor. A large hammer and a meat hook swung from each of his massive hands. Up close, the giant cultist towered over Leona by more than two heads.

Leona had only managed to put up her rapier when the cultist savagely swung his hammer towards her. The Princess backed away just in time, only to be forced back once more by a follow-up swing from the meat hook. For his formidable bulk, the brute was frighteningly faster than any one of his compatriots she had faced so far.

"Milday!" Alyce cried out in alarm. Her attempt to come to her liege's aid was however interrupted by the rest of the cultists choosing that moment to attack all at once. Fully caught up with parrying a flurry of blows, Alyce could only watch helplessly as the Princess faced down the giant on her own.

Leona took up a low stance with her sword held out in front of her, swaying gently on her toes. There was simply no way she could match her opponent pound for pound; her best hope was to be agile and use her best trait to full effect. The former blacksmith hardly paused before pressing his attack once more, charging in with his hammer and hook whirling in grayish blurs like windmills. Taken aback by the fury of his assault, Leona could only beat a hasty retreat across the courtyard without attacking back even once. A jolt of fear raced down her spine. For all her speed, she still couldn't move fast enough to outmaneuver this monstrous man! The relentless bludgeoning blows were constantly keeping her on the defensive, and Leona dreaded what would ever happen once she was backed up against the barrack wall. A single hit from either of those weapons would maim or kill her instantly.

What did she learn about fighting someone who was stronger and bigger than her?

_Parry, evade, strike, and then evade again. _The lilting voice of her fencing instructor Don Lorenzo Bianchi rang inside her head._ Don't feel compelled to land a decisive blow. A victory by a thousand pricks is still a victory!_ Leona however realized that against this brute, she would only get a single chance—just one blow that could either make or break her. Desperately pushing down her fears, Leona tried to take in the rhythm of the blacksmith's attacks as she continued to dodge them by a hair-width. _Swing, swing, swing, pause; swing, swing, swing, pause; swing, swing, swing pause…_Leona took in a sharp breath. Despite his crude movements, there was still a distinct pattern in the giant's attacks.

_All right then._

Taking her chance, Leona lunged like lightning at the short pause between the blows and struck into the man's right wrist. She could feel the metal grinding against bone as she deftly twisted the blade. The giant man withdrew his hand at once with a pained roar, a trail of fresh blood flowing from his wound. His hammer fell from his loose grip onto the ground. Leona grinned fiercely and stepped forward to press her luck.

Without skipping a beat, the giant cultist backhanded the Princess with a feral snarl. Stars exploded in front of her as Leona was tossed bodily onto the ground like a discarded rag doll. Pain unlike she had ever felt before ripped through her right cheek, sending the world around her into a wild spin. Every single one of her sensations disappeared for what seemed like an eternity before slamming back to her with such intensity that the Princess almost lost her consciousness entirely. Through her woozy eyes, Leona saw the blacksmith standing over her, chuckling maliciously. Somewhere from the distance, faint echoes of Alyce's desperate shouts reached her ears. Leona managed to prop herself up and shakily raised her blade in a futile defiance. The meat hook swept in and wrenched the rapier from her grip with a jarring pain. The Princess sagged as her weapon flew out of her immediate reach. An involuntary whimper escaped her lips as she beheld the blacksmith slowly raise the meat hook for a killing blow.

She had failed. Girard's brave efforts to buy her time, her hopes of bringing Elbion back from the brink, her desire to see the people freed from their misplaced faith…everything in the end had all been for naught. Perhaps death would come quickly, and release her from the despair washing over her. Leona tightly grasped the sun pendant around her neck and closed her eyes in resignation.

A loud, wet squelch and a guttural scream of agony shook Leona from her stupor. The Princess opened her eyes and saw, to her amazement, a mounted figure charging past her at full speed. The giant cultist was standing frozen in place, his meat hook still raised above his head. His bulging eyes were staring dumbly at the bloody tip of a quivering long spear that had punched clean through his chest from the back. A strangled gurgle poured from his bloody mouth as he began to sway dangerously. But with the sound of galloping hooves, the horsemen wheeled around and came rushing back. Letting out a loud war cry, he drew out his arming sword and struck hard against his stunned quarry. With a long moan, the giant cultist finally fell to his knees and toppled face-first into the ground.

Leona gaped in shock as the rider cantered to a halt in front of her, and recognized him as the lone Dragoon she had seen earlier fighting off the cultists. The young man swept off his helmet from his sweaty reddish brown hair, and gave a dramatic bow with a loopy grin plastered across his reddening face.

"Princess Leona!" the Dragoon announced cheerfully. "Allow me to present the courtesy of Martin de Massey, the Gentleman-Dragoon extraordinaire of the Sossone Urban Patrol!"

* * *

The few surviving cultists beat a hasty retreat with the death of their leader. Alyce expended her anger taking down the last couple men before hurrying over to Princess Leona. She felt a great relief wash over her when she saw her liege, dazed but alive, being helped up by a Dragoon who was unfamiliar to her.

"Princess! By the Light, are you alright?!" Alyce exclaimed anxiously, and gasped at Leona's rapidly swelling cheek. "Look at what that monster did to you! Forgive me for not coming to your aid sooner-"

"There's no need for alarm, Alyce," Leona smiled painfully as she accepted her rapier from the young man. "Thanks to Sir Martin here, I have been spared from the worst fate. You have my sincerest gratitude, sir."

"Don't mention it, milady!" Martin beamed proudly. "I only did what my duty dictated. I'm sure any loyal subject of Elbion would have done the same!"

Alyce stared at the Dragoon. The look on her face went from puzzlement to surprise to annoyance within seconds.

"You!" she growled. "What are YOU doing here?"

"You two know each other?" Leona asked.

"What…? No!" Martin frowned in confusion. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, don't play dumb," Alyce snapped, her eyes glaring at him. "What sane trooper in Sossone doesn't know the name 'Martin the First' and his lily-livered shenanigans?"

The Dragoon's reddened cheeks lost their color at once.

"What…? But that's…I mean that's not…well, I-" the young man stammered, his earlier swagger suddenly evaporating.

"Sir Martin just saved my life, Alyce," Leona cut in, attempting to diffuse this sudden tension in the air. "And from what I've seen, he had led an admirable defense of the barracks despite overwhelming odds! He was remarkably brave, and," the Princess gave Martin an encouraging smile. "Without his skills with arms, the cultists would not have been broken so easily."

"You are too kind, milady," Martin said with a recovering smile.

"Having said all this….I merit you first and foremost for your service to Sossone, Sir Martin," Leona said. "But I believe my mind would be put more at ease if you accompanied us from now on as a member of my retinue. Will you accept?"

"But Princess!" Alyce protested vehemently. "This man here is a known coward and a troublemaker! Why, I actually saw him earlier trying to escape and leave us fighting for our lives! Surely, no good can come from having him around!"

Though Martin tried his best not to look guilty or ashamed, he could not help but cringe from this accusation. _So his escape plan had not gone unnoticed… _Inwardly, he braced himself for the inevitable rebuke.

"I understand," Leona said firmly. "But what matters the most is that he came back, Alyce. Sir Martin came back to the fight when none of the Soldiers who fought with him did! And that alone makes him worthy of a second chance."

The young Dragoon stared at the Princess, utterly astonished. Was he hearing this right? To be forgiven of this blatant display of weakness…being caught in such an act under normal circumstances would've seen him whipped, or even hung from the gallows.

"Besides," Leona suddenly grinned. "I am in a dire need of talents right now. And it will be a terrible waste if we just let him go, won't it?"

Alyce, angry and upset, opened her mouth as if to protest some more, but a meaningful look from Leona lulled her into a reluctant silence.

The Princess turned to face Martin with more solemnity. "So then, will I have your oath, sir? Will you swear your fealty to me and promise to serve me until I command otherwise?"

Martin knelt without hesitation, drawing out his sword and planting it before him with both hands. "I, Martin de Massey, the first and only son of the late Baron Rene de Massey, hereby pledge my allegiance to his highness Princess Leona until the end of time," the Dragoon proclaimed. "May the Light be my witness, and let my soul be forever damned if I ever forsake my oath!"

"Rise, Sir Martin. I shall expect great things from your future service to me," Leona said. "Under normal circumstances, we would observe more formalities. But alas, there is not enough time. The rebels will soon return in greater force, and we must be away from the city with all haste!"

"With your permission," Alyce said sullenly, "I will see if I can scrounge some supplies from the barrack stores. With any luck, it will still be well-stocked."

"And I shall go to the stables and ready the horses," Martin added happily.

"Do so!" Leona nodded. "Let us only take what we can carry. Too many supplies will only slow us down."

Alyce and Martin saluted and hurried off to their respective assignment. Left alone, Leona turned her gaze over the walls into the burning city. After her first real fight, the scene of destruction no longer bothered her as much as its implications. Everything she had known her entire life as a Princess was lost forever this day. There was no going back to the days that had been, and nor will there be a peaceful future she had dreamed of. And like many of the people who had chosen a dark path, she too needed to become a complete stranger to herself if she wanted to win back her kingdom. In the end, was there really a chance of redemption for any of them? There was no immediate answer to the question, except for a simple promise to do what she could. The Princess slowly grasped her sun pendant and reflected on her earlier oath.

"The mother and her child," Leona whispered. "The mother and her child."

* * *

Martin was grinning like a madman as he saddled up the horses for the journey. His whole day had been one near-miss after another. By all accounts, he shouldn't be alive. Math was never one of his strong suits, but even he knew the odds of surviving every one of those harrowing encounters were next to none. A man especially like him wasn't supposed to have come out this unscathed. _War spares not the brave, but the cowardly… _An old saying he had picked up in the academy slid into the Dragoon's mind.

Martin shook his head vehemently. _He wasn't cowardly, _he corrected. _He was blessed! _After all, how many men could boast of not only having defied these overwhelming odds, but also becoming as a valued member of the Princess's personal retinue? If he played his cards right, his fortunes would always be on the uphill from now on.

Yes, Martin happily decided. There definitely was a higher power up there looking out for him.

* * *

**R&R!**


	6. Chapter 3: The Lost and the Damned

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem.**

**Thank you so much for checking out this latest chapter of FE: DL! I'm sorry if I had kept you all waiting for too long. There were a lot of things going on in my life lately, and it had taken some effort to keep on writing. But here I am at last, delivering the goods…**

**Thanks for all the reviews so far, by the way. They had been most helpful!**

**KingOfStories01: As for your questions…**

**Both Alyce and Martin are a little older than Leona, around 22/23. Does this clear things up a little?**

**I am including some original elements in the story line, but overall, yes I will include all the character archetypes. This is an FE fanfic, after all!**

* * *

**Chapter 3: The Lost and the Damned**

_Together with Alyce and Martin, Princess Leona rides away from Sossone with all haste. Her destination lies in Nantine, a fortress-town garrisoned by a sizable contingent of the Elbion army. From there, the Princess plans to rally the rest of the loyalist forces and strike back against the rebel cultists. _

_ After several days of hard travel, Princess Leona and her retinue decide to stop at a nearby forest for much needed rest…._

* * *

Dusk fell across the peaceful forest, casting long shadows over its glens like black ink. Westerly breeze swept through the supple branches, and fresh green leaves broke into rustling whispers.

Humming a merry tune, Martin sauntered down by the forest stream with his flask in hand. Alyce was sitting further down by the waters, diligently scrubbing her armor with a piece of wet rag. Her taut and muscular physique under her tunic was more prominent without her bulky breastplate, and struck a strange contrast with her soft, wide eyes. Upon spotting Martin, the Guardswoman stood up and quickly began to buckle into her half-polished gear.

"Hey there! What's the rush?" Martin laughed as he walked up to her. "Alyce, right? There's no need to be so shy! I just came down here to relax!"

Alyce ignored the Dragoon and finished adjusting her armor in silence.

"Anyway…I was just thinking," Martin continued cheerfully, oblivious to her cold reception. "Since we'll all be traveling together, it would be nice for us to get to know each another a little better! After all, we need to build some rapport between us if we are going to serve the Princess as her bodyguards, am I right? "

Alyce whirled around on the spot and roughly pulled Martin in by the front of his shirt.

"Listen up, you drunken slob," she snarled into the Dragoon's startled face. "You may have pulled a fast one over the Princess, but you're sorely mistaken if you think your half-baked scheme is going to work on me, you understand?! I would've handed you over to the Rionists myself if the Princess hadn't been so forgiving! So if I ever catch you chickening out or causing trouble for all of us, I swear to Light I'm going to make you regret the day you were born! Got it?!"

Her tirade finished, Alyce shoved the young man away and stormed off.

"Hey, what the hell is your problem?" Martin shouted indignantly and hurried after the disgruntled Guardswoman. "And what gives you the right to treat me this way, huh? You don't even know me that well!"

"My problem," Alyce stopped and shot back. "Is that you are a shameless coward who has brought nothing but disgrace to Sossone garrison for years! And as if embarrassing yourself wasn't enough, you have a knack for bringing misery to innocent people around you!"

"You jest! I've never done such a thing in my life!" Martin huffed.

"Oh, really?" Alyce's exclaimed with mocking sincerity. "Let us look back on your past heroics, shall we? At the bread riots two years ago, you bailed from your position at the picket line claiming you had stomach troubles, letting the mob storm through the gap unopposed and burn down the grain silo. And did you ever step forward to take the fall for the blame? No! Poor Sir Axel couldn't walk for a week after the whipping he got!"

"What, I had a perfectly good excuse for that! The meat pie I had for lunch didn't agree with me so I really had to use the privy," Martin said defensively.

"And there was that one time last summer when the garrison sallied out to Bernardville to fight Zerakon Raiders, where you persuaded the entire cavalry brigade to go off and investigate this "mysterious horn call" that somehow only you could hear! Not only did the Raiders manage to slip away with all the town treasures, but an entire Guard regiment had to suffer two months on half-ration and with no pay!"

"Oh, come on now. I really did hear that horn call! Besides, there was a real possibility of being outflanked by the enemy. I only did what was right and warned the rest of the squadron!"

"And for cherry on the top of your mess: I have it in good authority that you were the one who started that bar fight at 'The Dancing Bear' just six months ago. As you know, the brawl blew up into a riot that burned down the entire merchant quarters into cinders. And did I see you confess while your commanding officer was being reprimanded? No! I heard that poor woman was demoted to one of the provincial garrisons far from Sossone. Tell me that wasn't your fault! I dare you!"

Martin's flushed face turned even redder, but the Dragoon remained silent.

"Face it, Martin," Alyce sneered. "That's what you end up doing every time! You are always the first one to cause trouble and the first one to dodge the blame. That's why they call you 'Martin the First,' isn't it?"

"Let my actions be the judge of my character, not my past!" Martin cried in exasperation. "Have I not proven myself by fighting all those cultists instead of running away? And don't call me by that nickname. I hate that nickname."

"So what? You think killing a few back alley brawlers who barely know how to swing their weapons makes you a dedicated fighter?" Alyce snapped. "You think you deserve better just because those pathetic wretches threw themselves on your sword? Think again if you believe that's all it takes to become a part of the Princess's retinue."

"Our liege doesn't need some dainty ladies or fancy gentlemen who can make small talk or crack jokes! She needs someone who can stand his ground and fight, not out of some drunken courage but out of duty, again and again until either he or the enemy lies dead on the field. You think you're up to it? You think you have strong enough spine for that kind of responsibility?"

Nothing but a strangled croak came from the young man. With bulging eyes and slightly parted lips hanging frozen, Martin altogether made up for a comedic sight.

"I thought so," Alyce scoffed. "Either clean up your act or stay out of my way. Protecting the Princess is my job, not yours."

With that, the Guardswoman stalked away from the Dragoon once more towards the forest path that led back to their makeshift camp.

"We're at war, Martin," she called out one last time before pushing her way past the trees. "And you've sworn an oath to the Princess. At least act like you believe in it!"

Left alone, Martin stood flabbergasted and still at loss for words.

"Hey, you think I actually enjoy living like the way I do?" he blurted out at last. "You think I'm not even trying to be a little different? And it's _Sir _Martin to you! I'm a nobleman, remember?!"

His forlorn protest echoed around the stream, unheard and unanswered. Martin cursed and clenched his fists hard—his hands were beginning to tremble again.

* * *

Even after days, it still hurt.

Leona cringed and quickly took her fingers off her cheek. By the way of a small mirror from her pack, she saw that the swelling on her face had gone down but left an ugly purple bruise just below her cheekbone. Any higher and she would've been left with a proper black eye. Never in her life has she ever come away with something like this, not even from her training sessions back in Sossone. Everyone she had ever sparred with took great care not to leave a mark on her, not even the master Duelists who supervised her swordplay. In a way, Leona's status as a royalty had prevented her from learning about the pain that naturally accompanied actual fighting. Swordplay had been a mere sport to her, never an art of war.

Still, the sight of her injury was so fascinating that it brought a smile to Leona's lips. This was her first battle wound, a proof that she had faced a down a battle and lived to tell the tale. It was to be the first of many wounds she needed to endure in the struggle for her kingdom. Still, Leona wished the bruise wasn't been as ugly or so blatant. Perhaps rubbing an ointment on it could make it go away faster. Or she could obtain one of those fancy tinted eye-glasses that are rumored to be so popular amongst wealthy Ispellians. The very thoughts provoked Leona's smile into a full-blown laughter. Here she was, penniless and fleeing from the bloodthirsty rebels, and yet still managing to find time to worry about her looks like a little girl! Vanity was a hard habit to outgrow.

A loud crack from a snapping branch interrupted her reverie. Expecting to see Alyce or Martin return, Leona looked up and froze.

Across the small forest clearing where they had set up camp, a teenage boy stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide and his mouth half-open with surprise. Of average height, his black hair was long and covered one of his brown eyes; brown leather-and-cloth jerkin and a red leather belt made the boy's light skin stand out even more. In addition to a quiver over his back, he also had a sturdy self-bow in his hands with an arrow loosely notched in its bowstring.

"Who are you?!" Leona asked sharply, scrabbling to her feet at once. "How long have you been standing there?" Her hand automatically darted down to her rapier strapped to her hip.

"Umm…I…well…Err…" the boy stuttered in panic.

"Answer me!" Leona exclaimed a little louder as she stepped towards him. "I said, 'who are you?'"

"Umm…that is…I was…" the boy still continued to stutter, his voice instantly jumping an octave higher.

With a loud crash and snap, Alyce came charging out of the bushes and barreled straight into the boy. In no time, the seething Guardswoman was standing over her dazed quarry with her glaive raised and ready to strike. The teenager quickly recovered his wits and yelped in fright at the sight of Alyce's glowering face.

"Don't kill me!" he cried out, putting out his hands before him in helpless surrender. "I…I wasn't going to do anything, I swear!"

Alyce growled and thrust the glaive right up against the teenager's neck. The boy's face turned ghostly white.

"What are you doing here, maggot?!" the Guardswoman roared. "You were spying on us, weren't you? Perhaps you were hoping to catch us unaware in our sleep and slit our throats!"

"No!" the boy protested in panic. "This is all a big mistake! I was just going home after checking on my traps when I saw this campfire lit through the trees. I just—I thought maybe there were some poachers snooping about, or someone had forgotten to put out their fire before he moved on. I didn't mean to surprise anyone, really!" As if to back his story up, the boy lifted up his bow. "I'm a Hunter, see? I catch small game and keep a lookout for outlaws in this forest!"

Leona walked up and looked over the boy closely. Other than surprise and fear, she could detect no other emotion on his innocent face. From what she could see, the boy seemed to have told them the truth.

"Hold on for a minute, Alyce" Leona said. "What is your name?"

"Julien," the teenager replied. "From Wiltshire, born and raised."

"Well, Julien…are you a Rionist? Tell us truthfully, and I promise no harm will be done to you."

A look of genuine indignation crossed Julien's face. "What? No!" he exclaimed. "There's no way I'm throwing my lot with those crazy nuts from up north! I'm a good citizen of Elbion through and through."

Alyce looked surprised. "I thought most of the country folks had converted into Rionism by now. You mean you didn't buy into that message about equality and freedom? About power and wealth?"

"Not at all, and nor did my village," Julien huffed. "A disciple from the cult actually came by a few months ago and tried to sell those ideas. We didn't get it though. All of us knew we were already free and equal in the village, so why did we have to work extra to get what we already had? And sure, we weren't rich or fancy like those folks living in big towns, but we were happy with what we've got. And this cultist was telling us to go and rob those people, like we were some filthy bandits! Can you even imagine that?"

Julien laughed scornfully as he recalled the incident, while Leona and Alyce exchanged a surprised glance. After their perilous escape from the capital, it was hard to believe there were still some common folks out there who had not fallen under the sway of the cult.

"So what happened next?" Leona asked.

"Well, we lost interest in this guy after a while and started to ignore him," Julien continued. "Then he just went nuts and started calling us all these names, saying we were too blind and stupid to understand his message. And of course, that didn't sit well with many of us. We would've clobbered him to pulp had not Father Paul intervened."

"Who's Father Paul?"

"He's a Cleric who visits Wiltshire every now and then to look after anyone who's gone sick," Julien said happily. "The kindest man I know, and very smart too! I heard he went to a fancy seminary in Montagne, and graduated top of his class. Anyway, Father Paul didn't want us beating up that disciple even though he was so rude. So he told the cultist that if he could best him in an open debate, then he could stay in the village as long as he liked."

The Hunter was shaking with mirth now.

"I take it that the contest didn't go well for the Rionist?" Leona said.

"Oh, you should've been there," Julien laughed, "Father Paul ripped that guy to shreds! Couldn't even make a proper comeback, that cultist—he just stood there with his face turning red and white. By Light, all of us laughed so hard that day! But to cut the story short, we ran that fool out of our village after the debate and pelted him with garbage. We haven't had any trouble with Rionists ever since."

"That is…a heartening story, Julien" Leona smiled. "Look, I'm sorry we attacked you. We're just a little on edge right now, and really don't know whom we can trust." With a nod from the Princess, Alyce drew her glaive away from the Hunter.

"It's quite alright, Miss. I mean I did surprise you and all," Julien said with a relieved smile. "I should've called out first and let you know I was here. It's just that…well…" The teenager's voice suddenly turned shy. "Forgive me, but…I just couldn't help but stare at you. I mean, you're so…beautiful! Hands down prettier than any of the girls in the village…"

Leona found herself speechless as Julien looked away with his face turning bright crimson. Alyce let out an amused chuckle.

"What's going on here?"

Martin's befuddled face was soon peering over Alyce's shoulder. A glance at the rugged boy sprawled at her feet told him all he needed to know.

"You sure know how to make friends fast, Alyce" Martin said sarcastically. "For Light's sake, help him up, will you? The boy could certainly do without pissing his pants for one day."

"I can get up on my own, thank you very much" Julien said indignantly as he stood up and dusted himself. "And I'm not a boy! I'm almost eighteen, old enough to join the army or get married."

"Good for you, chum," the Dragoon replied casually. "So what's going on here? Are we in trouble?"

"Just a case of mistaken identity," Leona said. "This is Julien. He's a local around these parts, who stumbled in here by accident. And he says his village stands free from Rionists!"

"You don't say."

"What do you have against those weirdo Rionists anyway?" Julien asked. "They aren't exactly the sharpest cheese on the cracker, but you all seem extra jumpy at the mention of them. You've got a history with the Rionists or something?"

"You mean you don't know what they've done?" Leona asked, surprised.

"We don't really get travelers often in Wiltshire," the Hunter shrugged. "It usually takes us about a month or so to figure out what's been going on out in the big cities. Care to catch me up?"

Leona hesitated. How could she start describing the horrors she had witnessed in the past few days, all without alarming this boy? The fall of the capital and the crisis looming over the kingdom would not be easy news to swallow.

"Say, that's a really bad bruise you've got there," Julien suddenly exclaimed as he peered into Leona's face. "Might last for weeks if not treated properly, I'd say."

"It'll be alright. I can wait for that long," Leona replied.

"Well, why don't ya'll follow me back to Wiltshire? I'm sure Father Paul would be more than happy to take care of that for you! And you can stay the night with us and get some warm food while you tell us everything! What do you say?"

Leona exchanged a look with Alyce and Martin.

"What should we do?" The Princess asked in a low voice.

"I say this boy is either innocent or a very good liar," Alyce muttered. "He could be a Rionist spy who could be luring us into a trap. Still, I don't think he was making up that story about the cultist disciple and Father Paul. He genuinely seemed repelled by the Rionists."

"I agree. And if there really is an entire village that has not fallen under their influences, we can hardly ignore the shelter and provisions people may offer us," the Princess replied.

"At any rate, we shouldn't let our guard down until we know for sure the village is safe, milady. But in the meantime, I think we should still follow this boy."

"What do you think, Sir Martin?" Leona asked.

"Well, it's better than staying out here and risk running into bandits or actual Rionists," the Dragoon shrugged. "At least if we are behind a wall, we can put up some defense if things turn out for the worst. So, I say we go for it."

"Very well then," Leona turned and faced the Hunter with a warm smile. "We will gladly take you up on your generous invitation, Julien. I personally thank you and your village for such hospitality."

"Excellent!" Julien beamed. "Alright then, if you all would pack up and follow me into the forest... I expect we'll be back in Wiltshire in no time. You certainly won't regret it! We love having guests around for dinner!"

* * *

The forest steadily grew thicker around them as Princess Leona and her retinue led their mounts down the forest path. Despite the dimming light, Julien seemed to have no trouble seeing where he was going. Occasionally, the Hunter would call out to warn the rest for any protruding roots or stumps they needed step over.

"Not too far now, ladies and gentleman," Julien said cheerfully. "You are in luck! We still have plenty of game and grains left over from our winter stores. You'll really love my grandmother's roasted rabbit soup! And her wild cabbage salad, her blueberry tarts, and her raspberry juice…"

"He knows how to treat his guests, I'll give him that," Martin muttered while the teenager rambled on in excitement. "As long as I get to refill my flask, I'm a happy man."

"I still can't believe some commoners chose to remain loyal to the kingdom," Leona whispered. "My father's rule had been so harsh on them! They have every reason to welcome the new regime."

"I know a thing or two about forest villages like this….Wiltshire, milady," Alyce replied. "The people living in such communities are mostly lumberjacks, trappers, and hunters—those who are too poor to own farming land. The taxes levied on them would not have been as harsh as it is for peasants elsewhere. And the local authorities usually leave these people alone to fend for themselves."

"So…basically you're saying these people aren't killing us because they had nothing to lose in the first place." Martin sniffed. "How comforting."

"I'm sure that's not the whole truth of it," Leona said. "Remember this Father Paul Julien spoke of? I'm certain the Cleric's devotion and care for the villagers played a role in keeping the radical ideas away from Wiltshire. If only the same could be said for Sossone…"

"So where are ya'll from anyway?" Julien suddenly asked. "You don't look like folks from around here, with your fancy weapons and everything. Are you with the army?"

It suddenly occurred to Leona that Julien had not shown sign of recognizing who she was ever since he met her. After all, how could he? It was obvious that the Hunter did not venture outside the forest very often, and neither has she gone further than the outskirts of Sossone. Leona however decided not to reveal her identity just yet. Regardless of Julien's affable gesture, it seemed prudent not to leave any visible trails of her journey behind her.

"We're from…Aquitaine," Leona answered with care. "We were on our way to visit my relative in Nantine. These are my hired mercenary bodyguards, Alyce and Martin. I'm Le…anne."

Julien's eyes opened wide with excitement. "Aquitaine? Oh wow, it must've been quite a long way to travel all the way from there! And bodyguards?! I knew there was something special about you the moment I saw you. You don't speak like a peasant, more like a noble lady!"

"Lady Leanne is an heiress to an estate, kid," Martin chimed in, eager to embellish the cover story further. "Our master is a duke of some note, a valiant Knight honored by the King himself! He's got a big mansion, a stable full of horses, and a cellar full of Ispellian wine—"

"That's enough, Martin," Leona said with a warning glance. "It's not polite to show off in front of our host."

"Are you as dumb as you look?" Alyce hissed in an undertone. "Show some tact, will you? You're giving away too much already!"

"Man, that must be quite grand, living in style," Julien said dreamily, fortunately unaware of the exchange. "Still, if I was rich like that, I wouldn't know what to do with all my money. I'd probably travel around, get out of Wiltshire and see what this kingdom has to offer. Besides, I've always wanted to go to the capital city."

"To Sossone?" Leona asked. "Why would you want to go to there?"

"Why not? It's Sossone, the greatest city in the world!" the Hunter laughed. "I've heard such wonderful stories about the place from travelers. If even half of what they told me is true, then by Light, I don't think I will want to come back to the forest! I would enlist in the city guard to earn my keep, go see the great cathedrals and museums on weekends, buy myself some fancy clothes and exotic spices from across the sea, and maybe find a nice gal to settle down with…! Who knows, I might even work my way up the ranks and become a captain! I'm a good shot with the bow, after all!"

"Oh, dream on, kid!" Martin laughed derisively. "You are naïve if you think you can live out your fantasy in the city. Do you really think being a watchman is that simple in real life? They're not going to hand out captain's pins like free bread, least of all to a backwater peasant like you!"

"Martin!" Leona scolded. "Show some decency!"

"It's quite alright," Julien said happily, unfazed by the comment. "That's pretty much what my friends said when I told them about all that. Still, a man can dream, right? Besides, the Light teaches us that if we believe in our goals and try hard enough, nothing will be out of our reach!"

Leona wasn't quite sure what to say to the Hunter. She had known for a long time about the misery and poverty that gripped the masses of Elbion. After all, hadn't the Rionists exploit those sentiments to sway the people to their cause? Never in her life did she hear or meet someone who had worked their way up from the bottom. In Elbion, a peasant remained a peasant until death—a fact that even the Light could not fully justify.

"Ah, here we are!" Julien suddenly laughed and swept his arm out in front of him. "Welcome to Wiltshire!"

The group had emerged into a large clearing in the middle of the forest that was occupied by a ring of crude palisades. Thatched roofs rose above the ramparts, with wispy smoke rising from mud-brick chimneys. Small patches of vegetable gardens had been sown outside the gates. Here and there, a few stray chickens pecked at the ground for insects to eat. Though Wiltshire lacked all the civilized grandeur of larger cities, the village looked so peaceful and clean in comparison. It was an idyllic sanctuary hidden away in middle of a wild forest.

"I like the looks of this place," Alyce said brightly. "Nice and quiet, just like in the fairytale books. We'll be able to rest easy here tonight."

"What can I say? It's home," Julien said proudly. "Not much to look at, but after a long in the forest, one look at it just takes all my worries away—"

"Julien!"

Everyone looked up to see a man rushing down from the village gate, his face a mask of panic and terror. The Hunter jogged up anxiously to meet him.

"Mister Elmer! What's wrong? What's going on?"

"That Rionist disciple from before came back! And he's brought these…thugs with him this time!" the villager gasped. "We couldn't do anything to stop them from taking over the village. And—and—"

"What is it?!" Julien cried out, his anxiety escalating.

"Oh, by the Light, they've roughed up Father Paul and dragged him out to the square! I'm afraid they are going to do something bad to him!"

Julien became pale as a corpse. "No!"

The teenager, having completely forgotten his companions, quickly rushed into the village along with the man from the village.

"So much for shelter and safety," Alyce said tensely. "What shall we do, milady? Should we leave this place and press onto Nantine?"

"No," Leona scowled. "Things may look bad here, but I think we should check out the situation ourselves and see what is going on. Besides, a cold-blooded murder of a clergyman is not something we can look over! Let us bring our weapons, but keep them out of sight. Be careful not to draw too much attention to ourselves."

"The cloaks we brought along for the journey will come handy here, I think," Martin said. "And we'll need to leave our mounts out here by the trees. No way the rebels wouldn't notice horses in their midst." The Dragoon slid off his saddle and tied the reins to a sturdy branch nearby. Pierre nickered nervously, and Martin promptly soothed him down with soft whispers. In the meantime, Alyce handed out plain voluminous cloaks she had taken out from the pack to each person. While Leona's rapier and Martin's arming sword were easily concealed, her own glaive was bulkier and therefore more difficult to hide. After a few tries, the Guardswoman decided to strap the polearm to her back and let the end of the shaft stick out from under the cloak drag along the ground, hoping none of the rebels decided to take a closer look behind her legs. Having prepared all they could, Leona and her men made their way past the village gate.

A crowd of villagers stood gathered ahead of them, their gazes fixed forward. Slipping on their hoods, the Princess and her retinue surreptitiously slipped into the throng where they could get a better view. Though dusk had fallen on Wiltshire, the village was well-lit by several torches and braziers erected nearby. After a few jostling, Leona found herself standing next to Julien once more, who was anxiously looking over the shoulders of men in front of him. The Hunter flinched at her sudden appearance, but relaxed once he recognized the face beneath the hood.

"Oh, it's you," Julien whispered, his voice laden with anxiety. "I'm so sorry I had to take off back there like that. But I couldn't spare any time once I heard the news! I had to be here as soon as I could… I want to see with my own eyes what they intend to do with Father Paul."

"Never mind that," the Princess whispered back. "What's happening now?"

The teenager merely nudged his chin forward, redirecting Leona's gaze.

In front of the gathered crowd, a wooden platform had been erected in the middle of the village. A man stood upon it, whom Leona instantly knew to be the Rionist disciple. Extremely emaciated to the point of being skeletal, the disciple cut a frightening figure with a swathe of crimson robe hanging off his frame like loose skin. His bloodshot eyes were too big and seemed ready to pop out of their sockets. His head was a hairless orb branded with a mark of a single crimson eye. Four burly armed men surrounded the dais, staring menacingly into the ring of villagers as if daring any of them to step forward. Two more thugs stood up on the platform behind the disciple. These Rionist enforcers appeared to be more at ease with their weapons unlike the mob she had faced back in Sossone—no doubt they had been chosen for their natural propensity for violence. One of them even had a wooden shield just like Zerakon Raiders, though his bearing was nowhere as martial as those proud mercenaries.

"Darn it all, I didn't think that weirdo was going to come back here again!" Julien muttered angrily. "If it weren't for his lackeys we would have run him out already! This is turning into a nightmare!"

"So why don't you?" Martin asked from behind. "There are more than enough villagers here to overwhelm those cultists! Surely your numbers must count for something!"

"I wish we could. But we are nothing but trappers and woodsmen! We know how to deal with a few bandits and wild animals, but not this! Look at them! There's no one in Wiltshire who can match those men in size! Besides, as long as they are holding Father Paul., our hands are tied."

It was evident that Julien wasn't the only person who was harboring frustration. All around her, Leona could sense resentment simmering among the gathered villagers that was only held in check by greater fear. For all their rough living in the forest, people of Wiltshire were not disciplined fighting men and were easily cowed.

As if relishing the uneasiness of the villagers, the disciple suddenly launched into a passionate speech. His high-pitched voice was like nails scraping against a metal plate.

"My brothers and sisters," the emaciated man crowed. "My beloved comrades-in-arms! Rejoice this day, for a new era has dawned upon us all! Cast aside your weary burdens and cease your meaningless labor! The world as you have known is no more, and freedom and equality are yours to take!"

"His words aren't all that different from the last time he was here," Julien muttered under his breath. "And where does he get the nerve to call us his brothers and sisters, anyway?"

"The old regime has fallen at last!" the disciple prattled on. "Our brothers and sisters in Sossone had risen up only days ago and deposed the tyrant king from his lofty throne! The most glorious victory was ours! Even as I speak, our banners are flying high above his castle keep! Soon, other dens of villainy and corruption shall be purged of fat nobles and priests who have long robbed you!"

The tension in the crowd gave way into surprise and horror at this sudden revelation. Fearful whispers and cries of disbelief poured from the villagers until the Rionist thugs shouted for order. Beside Leona, Julien stood flabbergasted by the news. His bow slid out limply from his hand.

"The king…is dead?!" the teenager whispered. "Is he really…? Then the Rionists must have…by the Light, the capital has fallen then! I can hardly believe it!"

"It's true. The Rionists had nearly overtaken the whole city by the time we escaped," Leona said bitterly. "Still…he could be lying about the king. The Rionists were still nowhere near storming the keep when we left. He could have escaped their clutched and gotten to safety."

"Then you are actually from Sossone," Julien slowly nodded. "I think I understand why you hate those men so much. You have lost everything to the Rionists, haven't you?"

"More than you know, kid," Martin muttered.

On the platform, the disciple smiled widely at his fearful audience, revealing rows of his immaculate teeth. A frenzied look entered his eyes as he resumed his speech with gusto.

"But do not be afraid, my brothers and sisters! No harm will ever befall you. On the contrary, all your wildest dreams and desires will come true when you rededicate yourselves to the Prophet and his true faith! Suspicion and hatred that plagued this land for long shall be replaced by camaraderie and prosperity for all! But alas, we must first baptize ourselves in blood to fully embrace our new future!"

The disciple turned and gestured to the two henchmen behind him. A fresh gasp of horror broke from the villagers as the militiamen stepped forward and roughly deposited a disheveled figure they had been holding between them. Looking to be in his early forties, the man was wry but tall and easily towered over the cultists. The cultists had clearly roughed him up before they seized him, evidenced by a bloody gash across his forehead and his swollen lip. His black and white robe embroidered with a large sigil of a golden sun was torn in places and dirtied with soot and blood. Still, the man showed no sign of putting up any sort of resistance against his tormentors. On the contrary, he remained where he was without moving, his bearded face bowed down towards the floor.

"Father Paul!" Julien gasped. "Oh Light, they really are going to kill him! This can't be!"

"This is a sacrilege!" Alyce whispered furiously. "Who do they think they are, killing a defenseless Cleric?"

Leona looked on in growing anger as the disciple turned towards the Cleric and contemptuously spat on the back of his head. A swift kick to his ribs sent Father Paul toppling off to the side with a soft grunt.

"See this false shepherd of the old order, brothers and sisters!" the disciple cried out triumphantly. "For centuries, the so-called 'holy men' of the church have been beguiling you with empty promises while they grew fat on the fruits of your hard labor! They had imprisoned your souls with superstitions and meaningless words instead of working the land like honest common men! Who are these clergymen but leeches of the masses?! Who are they to oppress all of us along with those corrupt noblemen and the king?! And now, at this dawn of enlightenment, they shall pay for their sins, starting with this man!"

The cultist chuckled evilly as he seized Father Paul's light brown hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat. With his other hand, the disciple drew out a serrated knife from within his robe. A fresh groan of horror broke out anew from the villagers at the idea of what was to come next.

"Well then, _Father_," the disciple jeered. "Is there anything else you'd like to say before I send you to the afterlife?!"

Father Paul slowly raised his head further to look upon his captor. Despite his predicament, the Cleric's green eyes was filled only with genuine pity rather than fear and desperation of a condemned man.

"I hold no grudge against you, my son," the Cleric said somberly. "Do what you've come here to do."

The disciple threw his head back and cackled.

"See how this wretch meets his end! Like a helpless child, he only shows weakness and naivety to the last, abandoning strength befitting a man of the future! Witness his pathetic death, brothers and sisters! With his blood, we shall celebrate our imminent rebirth as the enlightened masters of the new kingdom! Rejoice, in the name of the Prophet!"

Unperturbed, Father Paul turned his serene gaze into the sky. "Light, have mercy on their souls!" he whispered. "They know not what they do."

With an ugly sneer, the disciple dramatically lowered his dagger towards the exposed throat of the Cleric, who remained still with his eyes closed. The horrified villagers held their breaths in anguished silence. Several women in the crowd began to sob piteously and turned away from the grisly scene about to play out in front of them.

* * *

"Stop this madness, in the name of the King!"

A gasp of surprise broke from the villagers as faces turned to one another in bewilderment. The disciple quickly looked up in alarm and anger, the Cleric before him momentarily forgotten.

"Who said that?! Who dares utter that abominable name in my presence? Who dares desecrate this sacred ritual with the filth of the old regime?!" the cultist screeched indignantly. His cronies sprang forward and snarled like angry wolves, their eyes darting from villager to villager.

The crowd slowly parted to either side, revealing a pair of cloaked figures defiantly staring up at the disciple. Even under the voluminous hood, Leona's eyes burned like fire.

"You fiend!" the Princess shouted. "It is you who desecrate this village with your blasphemous words! Your lot despoils this kingdom with false ideals and empty promises! And now, you dare spill the blood of a servant of the Light?! Have you no fear or shame?!" The fury pouring forth from every syllable was enough to send a tingle of terror down the spine of every villager nearby.

"I shall have your heads!" the disciple shrieked as he pointed his gnarly finger towards Leona. "Who do you think you are, wagging your tongue at me, wench?!"

"I will not be silent for anyone, save myself and the Light!" Leona cried as she cast aside her cloak and drew her rapier. "I, Princess Leona de Elbion, condemn you all for treason against the crown and spreading falsehood across the realm!"

"I guess the jig's up," Alyce murmured behind her. The Guardswoman immediately followed her liege, discarding her own cloak and taking up arms.

A hubbub of astonishment flooded Wiltshire as the villagers realized that a royalty of Elbion was standing among them. A few older men instinctively dropped to one knee and took off their hats. Julien openly gaped at her with undisguised shock before hastily scrambling down to his knees as well. His rough hands frantically scraped at his clothes free of dirt and grime. Even the serene expression on Father Paul's face was interrupted by a surprised look.

The disciple and his lackeys were likewise stupefied at this sudden revelation. The shock gradually wore off, however, and the disciple broke out into a malicious giggle.

"Behold," he cried, "behold the scion of the accursed tyrant, the firstborn daughter of the lost and the damned! See how she flaunts her misbegotten authority as if she was better than all of us! This waif, this _slut _would have hitched you to an iron plow like her father and bartered your blood and sweat for her own enrichment! What great outrage is it that she show herself before us here and now?!"

"Cease your madness, maniac! Your foul words have no power here!" Leona shouted. "Leave these innocent souls alone or we shall cut you down where you stand! This kingdom will not play victim to your depraved cult!"

"Ha! You think you really are virtuous, don't you?! You actually believe these people will readily stand beside you as your loyal subjects?" The disciple burst into a fit of laughter. "You really are a fool then! What can they expect from someone who's been surrounded by wealth all her life? What can you offer them beyond your few brave words? You are a relic of a bygone era who knows less about real life than I!"

As much as Leona hated to admit it, there was a startling truth in the disciple's words. What her father had done to Elbion could not be undone in days nor could she offer a better future for the people just yet. She had nothing but foolhardiness and ingrained sense of justice without any power to back it.

"Well then, _Princess…_Since you claim to care so much for your people, let's put your ideals to test, shall we? You and your men will surrender, or I will cut open this Cleric's throat and kill every single person in this dump!" As to emphasize his threat, the disciple pressed his dagger tightly against Father Paul. A small trickle of blood oozed from the scratch, but the Cleric to his credit did not flinch one bit. "I advise you make it quick, unless you wish to expose yourself as a liar in front of 'your people'!"

Tightly gritting her teeth in anger, Leona slowly dropped her rapier down beside her and nodded to Alyce. With a grimace, the Guardswoman reluctantly deposited her glaive at her feet as well. Despite her predicament, the Princess did not wish to jeopardize the life of an innocent individual.

"What the…? Where's Martin?" Alyce muttered in surprise. Indeed, the young Dragoon was no longer at his spot beside her, leaving no hint of his whereabouts.

"That spineless cur! I knew we couldn't depend on him. First sign of trouble and he bolts like a coward!" The Guardswoman lined her outburst with the choicest expletives. Her frustration however still failed to dispel the peril of their situation. The disciple broke into fits of joyful laughter as Princess Leona dropped her weapon.

"Good, good! I see you have not abandoned your precious morals after all! Well, rest assured we shall not lay a finger on you…just yet. After all, you'll need all your strength when we present you to the Prophet! Who knows, perhaps he shall take pity on you and try to make you see things from our point of view…"

As the Rionist thugs moved forward to take her, Leona couldn't do anything but tremble with impotent rage.

* * *

The disciple's screeching cackle suddenly turned into a wet gurgle. In a blink of an eye, an arrow was sprouting from the cultist's open mouth where it had pierced the back of his throat. The disciple froze up exactly as he was, expression of shock slowly replacing his glee. Leona turned just in time to see Julien notch and loose another arrow from his bow. The second shot found the cultist's heart and sent him toppling back onto the platform. The serrated knife he had been holding against Father Paul's throat slipped onto the ground from his lifeless hand.

A stunned silence lingered over the gathered crowd before a Rionist thug roared in rage. Howling horrific curses, the vengeful enforcers charged towards the Princess and her retinue with their axes and spiked clubs swinging to and fro. In their hurry, the Rionists cut down any unfortunate civilians who happened to be standing in their way. The burst of violence instantly sent the villagers fleeing the square in droves like cattle. Terrified screams and shouts swept through Wiltshire like fire as helpless men sought shelter from the murderous rampage.

Leona quickly recovered her rapier at her feet just in time to meet the first cultist attacking her. The Princess waited until the brute came close and darted to the side, allowing him to charge past. A timely thrust of her foot sent him tripping forward with a surprised cry. Alyce immediately stepped up and finished the dazed cultist with a downward slice. The second cultist was more cautious, and halted his charge in order to close in with his shield up. Leona found herself facing a solid wooden wall that covered a great part of the enemy's torso. Any thrusting blows made from the front would be rendered useless. The thug, confident of his chances, stepped closer to the princess.

Leona grinned. While a shield did offer much protection against blades, it also made its wielder slower and clumsier. And unless several men were banding together to form a shield wall, heavier shields, such as the wooden one the cultist wielded, often made keeping up with nimble foes very difficult. To make the matters worse, the thug obviously had no real skill wielding the shield—unlike Zerakon Raiders, or Ispellian Squires with their lighter, more maneuverable bucklers. A textbook move taught by her instructors would come handy here.

Leona first made a few feint jabs above the shield rim, prompting the cultist to raise his shield further above his eye level. After a few more jabs to ensure the shield remained up, the Princess quickly crouched and rolled right into the space under the shield. Before the cultist realized what had happened, she plunged the rapier straight into his groin as she rose. The man dropped his weapons and squealed in utter agony, scrabbling at the thin blade in vain. Another thrust through his throat silenced him forever.

The four remaining cultists crowded past Leona and lunged towards Alyce. The Guardswoman sent one man scrabbling back with a thrust before turning to block an axe blow from another. The branded cultist snarled and grabbed at the shaft of her glaive with his free hand, locking Alyce in place and leaving her vulnerable to the other two cultists. His grip was surprisingly strong, and despite her best effort, Alyce could not free herself easily. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two cultists swooping in for a felling blow. The Guardswoman cursed and exerted more effort into wrestling her weapon away.

Something whistled sharply past her head and thumped into one of the charging Rionists. The thug reeled with a painful cry, his hand grasping at an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Heartened by Julien's assistance, Alyce tugged her glaive downwards and butted the man in front of her with the brow of her helmet. The flat but sharp rim dug into his face, eliciting an agonized cry and finally releasing her weapon from the iron grip.

Alyce slew the stricken man and turned towards the remaining enemy, only to realize she had been too slow. The cultist brought his spiked club hard onto her tassets, denting the metal and sending a crippling pain lancing through her left thigh. Alyce cried out in pain and anger, and immediately punched the man's front teeth out. Unable to swing the glaive blade towards the cultist up this close, she instead gripped her weapon horizontally with both hands and floored him with blow from the metal-reinforced shaft. Alyce proceeded to throttle the thug with her weapon until his windpipe was crushed.

Her adrenaline drained, Alyce painfully raised herself up using her glaive as a crutch. The blow to her thigh had been bad, and she could only limp spasmodically. The other cultist with an arrow in his shoulder was also dead, slain by two more arrows sticking out from his chest and throat. For now, the village seemed to be clear of enemies.

"Alyce! Are you alright?!" Leona cried as she rushed over to her side. Alyce nodded before another jabbing pain made her wince and slump slightly. Julien, having shouldered his bow, came over to help her back up.

"It's nothing, milady," Alyce muttered as she leant against the teenager. "I can still fight if I need to. I've suffered worse before."

"Nonsense! We need to tend to your injuries at once," the Princess said urgently. "Stay out of the battle for a time being. This is an order, Alyce, so don't even think about doing otherwise."

"Princess Leona!" Julien suddenly gasped. "There are more them coming!"

Leona turned around to see another six burly Rionist enforcers running past the village gate. The two in the front wielded short spears while the rest wielded two-handed lumber axes.

"There must've been more men posted around the village. They must've heard the sound of battle!" Alyce said.

"This could be a little more difficult," Julien murmured faintly as he retrieved another arrow from his quiver.

"Stay here, Alyce. Let us deal with these men," Leona said grimly. The Guardswoman tried to protest, but another pain forced her to sit herself down onto the ground next to Julien. The odds seemed to outweigh them now; for all her skills, it would be difficult for the Princess and the Hunter to deal with six heavily armed men by themselves.

A brown blur suddenly broke out from between the two houses nearby and lunged into the incoming cultists with a wild cry. Propelled by momentum, Martin drove his spear into one of the spear-wielding thugs and sent him sprawling into his partner. Before the cultists could recover, the Dragoon was charging through the group with his sword unsheathed. Another thug fell in a spray of blood as the blade rent the air with brilliant flashes. Pierre ran across a few more feet before encountering the village palisades, forcing Martin to snatch at the reins and send the horse rearing. Built in a middle of a forest clearing, Wiltshire did not yet boast enough open space for effective mounted warfare.

"Cover me, Julien," Leona said as she took off across the square. The surprise provided by Martin's charge would only open a short window. The Princess hoped to take advantage of it and catch the cultists on the back foot. The thug who had been knocked over by his comrade's impaled body rose up to meet her, but an impressive shot through the left eye put a stop to his efforts. Leona lightly spun past the dead man as he fell.

"You shoot well," Alyce complimented through her gritted teeth. "Especially with your one eye covered up like that."

"What can I say?" Julien smirked as he lined up another shot, the taut bowstring gently brushing against his cocked chin. "I've got to bag each rabbit and pheasant with one shot if I don't want my friends to starve. Besides, as long as I've got my good eye open, nothing is beyond my aim—"

"Watch out!"

One of the cultists who had fallen earlier wasn't quite dead yet. Despite his horrendous head injury, the thug had managed rise and limp up to the Hunter unnoticed. Only a timely warning from Alyce saved him from a potentially fatal axe blow that sliced open his quiver instead. Arrows scattered across the ground as Julien jumped out of the way.

Alyce raised her glaive awkwardly from her sitting position, but Julien was faster. Unable to notch an arrow, the desperate teenager jumped onto the burly man's back and looped the staff of his bow around the cultist's throat. Gagging, the thug thrashed around in an effort to dislodge the Hunter, with both hands straining against the length of wood choking off his air supply. Julien's body flailed about comically as he hung on for dear life.

"Hold him steady!" Alyce yelled as she followed the cultist with her weapon. "I can't get a decent aim!"

"You want to trade places?! Be my guest!" Julien shouted back.

As the cultist bucked under him, Julien drew his right leg back and slammed his knee hard into the man's back. The sudden impact sent the thug staggering forward uncontrollably. Seizing the opportunity, Alyce angled her glaive towards the thug and watched in satisfaction as the cultist unwittingly threw himself onto the blade.

"Nice move back there," she nodded as Julien shakily climbed off the jerking body. The Guardswoman jerked her weapon out and let the dead cultist flop on the ground before her.

"Gotta give credit to my girl here," the Hunter patted his bow. "Made of quality ash; I could step on it a thousand times and it still wouldn't break."

Princess Leona, meanwhile, had just finished cutting down one of the three remaining Militiamen with consummate skill. Martin was herding another into a corner with constant jabs from his spear; his opponent defiantly brandished his axe in front of him as the Dragoon trotted close and closer. His attention fixed on the horseman, the cultist fell easily once Leona attacked him from the back.

"Where did the last one go?" Martin wondered as he scanned the village. "There!"

The sole surviving cultist was running away in full haste, having lost his nerve at the deaths of his comrades. Martin spurred his horse and immediately galloped after the man. At the threshold of the village gate, the Dragoon stopped and cursed.

"Damnation! The wretch ran into the thickets beyond! It's too dark to see anything out here!"

"I'll take care of him, if you don't mind."

Julien rushed up to the gate, swiftly notching and drawing his bow in one fluid motion. The Hunter's face was a mask of complete concentration as he adjusted his aim into the seeming dark.

"What, you're just going to shoot blind? You can barely see anything out there!" Martin exclaimed with a mocking laugh.

With a single twitch, the arrow sped into the gloomy thickets with a whistling shriek. An echoing cry of pain rang from the forest, and Julien immediately took off into the thickets. He returned not a minute later, a bloody arrow clutched in his hand.

"You got him?!" Martin asked incredulously as he stared at the arrow.

"Of course I got the bastard," Julien replied smugly. "A big, clumsy guy like him makes hell of a noise running through the bushes. He might as well as have painted a big shiny mark on his back!"

* * *

Alyce propped herself up against a nearby house and inhaled sharply. The pain on her thigh was becoming unbearable, worse than it should've been. She reached down and gingerly lifted up her dented tassets. The large bruise was visible even through her colored hose, so purple that it bordered on being black. Had her armor not absorbed most of the blow, her leg could've been broken clean. The last time she had been properly injured, catapult shrapnel had cracked three of her ribs in a battle against a coalition of Wallenburg and Ustrava. And here she was, wounded because some common thug took advantage of her carelessness in a small brawl.

She was getting sloppy. Alyce didn't know which was worse, the shame or the pain.

"Perhaps I may be able to help with that injury, my child," a gentle voice spoke.

Alyce looked up into the peaceful gaze of Father Paul kneeling in front of her. During the battle, the Cleric had not fled like other villagers but instead retrieved his staff and sought out injured civilians or carried out the last rites for those beyond his help. If he had been disturbed by the sight of the dead and dying around him, Father Paul showed no sign of it. He had not even taken time to look after his own battered face.

The Guardswoman slowly drew herself back and let the Cleric hold out his staff close to the wound. After muttering a short prayer, the clear blue orb mounted on top of the staff glowed brilliantly with a soothing light. The pain on Alyce's thigh ebbed away along with the bruise, leaving nothing but slightly stiff sensation in her leg.

"You will need to rest your leg for a little while, I'm afraid," said Father Paul. "You could expect a slight limp for a few hours or so."

"My gratitude to you, father," Alyce said. "Thank the Light for your healing hands."

"The Light always provides," the Cleric smiled piously, "especially for those who fight to protect the weak and the innocent."

"Woah, what happened to you?"

With a short gallop, Martin pulled up in front of the Guardswoman and the Cleric, his face flushed from victory. The Dragoon peered down curiously at Alyce's dented armor.

"Someone actually managed to hurt you? Who's not pulling her own weight now?"

"Never mind that," Alyce glared at him. "Where the hell were you?! Don't tell me you changed your mind after you ran away, again!"

"Are you for real?!" Martin scoffed. "I never ran away! I just went back to get Pierre from where I had left him! I obviously couldn't fight without my horse, duh!"

"You are a _Dragoon. _You are expected to fight on foot if needed, remember?"

"And not use the only advantage we have? Listen to yourself! Are you sure you paid attention during tactical briefings?" With a cocky grin, Martin turned his horse away and trotted over to Princess Leona. Alyce spat spitefully at the ground as she rose back to her feet.

"It's been less than a week and he's already getting on my nerves. Things are looking better and better."

"We are all made in Light's own image, child," Father Paul said. "Every one of us on this earth is a unique gift from the heavens above."

"It's too bad we can't return those gifts and get our money back, then," Alyce quipped.

* * *

With the deaths of the Rionists, the villagers cautiously emerged from their homes and hiding places once more. Anguished wails were heard as some recognized their loved ones amongst the fallen civilians. Father Paul was moving among crowd to look after the bereaved and help move the bodies away, assisted by limping Alyce. Leona wearily surveyed the dead lying all around her. Had she made a right decision? If she hadn't intervened when she did, perhaps she could have prevented unnecessary deaths of innocent bystanders. Was saving a life of one Cleric worth the lives of these villagers? Even after swearing her oath to protect the people back in Sossone, she still couldn't properly assess the costs of her brash actions beforehand.

"The coast is clear, Princess. The Rionists are no more."

Leona's gaze turned to see Julien kneeling in front of her with utmost humility and respect he could muster. The sudden abasement seemed so awkward for a cheerful teenager who accompanied them not too long ago.

"There's no need to act like that, Julien," Leona frowned. "I'm still the same person you met back in the forest, remember?"

"As you say, milady," the teen replied hastily, growing more nervous with each word. "As I was saying, Sir Martin and I have conducted a quick sweep around Wiltshire, to make sure none of them are about. I believe the village is now safe for your stay. And I'm going to personally make sure the food is prepared to your liking—"

"Jullien!" Leona exclaimed, "Seriously, please calm down! You have been nothing but gracious from the moment we met! Why are you panicking all of a sudden? Where is that happy boy who was sharing his big dreams? And do stand up!"

"I-I'm sorry, milady," Julien said apologetically as he scrambled up to his feet. "I…I still can't believe I'm talking to the Princess, and I didn't even put on my best shirt, and I've been too familiar with you since we've met, and I, well, I kinda feel like an idiot right now rambling on and about…"

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself! You are being so sweet," Leona smiled wryly. "And anyway, it is I who should thank you, Julien. If not for your actions, those Rionists would have taken me and my men back to the capital in chains."

"Ah, that was…nothing, really…I don't even know why I had…" The Hunter abruptly caught himself and blushed. "I guess I was just doing my civic duty, milady. That's all."

A gentle cough from behind him quickly snapped Julien from his thoughts. "Oh, and before I forget, my grandfather Remy would like to speak with you, milady. He is the village Elder here at Wiltshire."

Julien stepped aside to let a wizened old man leaning on a gnarled cane step forward. Despite his advanced years, there was still some vitality in the movements of the village elder that so abounded in his grandson.

"Milady," Elder Remy sputtered in a hoarse voice as he eagerly looked up into Leona's face. "Is it truly…Are you really…?"

"I am, good sir." Leona replied. "I am Princess Leona."

"Oh, Light be praised! You so favor us with your presence, your majesty! I only wish the circumstances had been more fortunate," the old man gushed forth emotionally, his rheumy eyes filling with tears. "I thank you for delivering us and Father Paul from the Rionists!"

"I am glad to have been of service. But I grieve for your friends and neighbors who had lost their lives. I…only wish I could have acted more prudently."

"Their deaths are on the Rionists, milady. And any one of us would have gladly given our lives if it meant saving our beloved Father Paul," Elder Remy said. "But if you are here, then what the disciple was saying was—"

"I'm afraid it's true," Leona said mournfully. "I cannot be certain about the King's fate, but Sossone has indeed fallen to the Rionists. As of now, I believe the greater part of Elbion is in an open rebellion against the crown."

Elder Remy's face darkened noticeably, as did many of the villagers who had gathered around in the meantime.

"Alas, it is as we have feared all along," the old man sighed. "We had known for some time there was discontent across the land, but none of us ever imagined an uprising such as this! The village may not have much, but we have always been faithful citizens of Elbion. And now, these terrifying cultists are about to bring new violence and misery over us! What has befallen this noble realm?!"

"Light shall have mercy on us all," Father Paul muttered from the side, having joined the gathering crowd by now.

"Holy Father, I am so pleased to see you alive." Leona said in warm relief. "How fare you? I pray those cultists had not done you much harm."

"It seems I will live on yet another day, thanks to the Light," the Cleric replied. "And I could say the same for you, milady. It is truly a blessing that you have been spared from the worst."

"It is only through the sacrifice of my loyal subjects that I have managed to survive so far," the Princess said. "But fear no more, good people of Wiltshire! I am making all haste to Nantine, where I shall rally the Elbion army to strike back against the rebels. This reign of terror shall not last for long!"

"We shall pray earnestly for your success then, milady," Elder Remy said. "We will provide you and your men with whatever supplies you may need for the remainder of your trip. However, it would be dangerous for you to remain in the forest for too long. The Rionists will return here in force once they realize one of their own has not returned."

"I understand," Leona said, "I have endangered you all just by being here. I urge you to do what is necessary to hide and defend yourselves against the rebels."

"We shall do so. But before you leave, I must ask you of one favor."

"Name it."

"Please, take my grandson along on your journey. As you have seen, Julien has some skill with the bow, and he knows this forest well. He will guide you through the safest and quickest route to Nantine."

"But, Grandfather," Julien exclaimed in alarm. "I can't just leave Wiltshire behind! Who will protect you and the village if I'm not around?"

"By the grace of Light, we can and will survive what hardship may come, Julien. We always have," Elder Remy said emphatically. "But the cultists will surely come back and even you can't prevail then! And remember, you've killed their disciple! The Rionists will hunt you down for it, and I will rather die than to see the terrible things they will do to you!"

"Grandfather…," Julien hung his head in grief.

"I will be most glad if Julien accompanied us, Elder Remy," Leona said. "His service to the kingdom and to me will be amply rewarded. And I shall personally see to it that Julien can return home as soon as I can rally the garrison at Nantine and set forth towards the capital."

"Then perhaps I could be of some assistance in that regard, princess," Father Paul said. "Most fortunately, my parish also happens to be back in Nantine. I plan to make a brief trip back there so I may bring back additional supplies for the injured villagers. My testimony of the events that had taken place may also prompt the garrison to act more quickly. Afterwards, I can accompany young Julien back to Wiltshire."

"You are not thinking of coming back here, are you?!" Leona asked in astonishment. "But the Rionists might find and kill you if you stay with the villagers! You of all people should understand the danger!"

"I recognize that what I intend to do may imperil my life," the Cleric calmly spoke. "Nevertheless, there is a Light-given duty I must perform for these people, and nothing can stop me from doing so, milady. If my life is to be forfeited in the process, then so be it."

Leona slowly nodded in resignation, her concern mixing in with rising admiration for Father Paul's dedication. "Then by all means, I shall not forbid you from doing what is right. But in the meantime, I thank you as well for your service to Elbion and to its people."

"I shall render what service I can provide."

"But in the meantime, my grandson's invitation still stands, milady," Elder Remy said. "Despite what had happened, it would be best if you and your men rest here for the night and set out again tomorrow morning. There is warm food for everyone and grain for the horses. And I am sure you would appreciate a sturdy roof over your head after what you've been going through in the past few days, though our lodgings might not be as comfortable as you would like."

"I would be glad of the rest, thank you," Leona said graciously. "And right now, any place I can lay my back on will be seem like a palace to me."

* * *

Leona's retinue left Wiltshire at the crack of dawn. Though the sun had barely gone up, the whole village came out to see to the Princess's departure. The horses had been well laden with food and drink for the journey ahead, though Nantine was not too distant to require strict rationing. Julien stood to the side next to a rather emaciated-looking pony, bidding farewell to his grandfather and friends. Despite his lack of sleep, the teenager seemed equally excited as he was anxious about the prospect of leaving the forest. Leona caught a tone of envy from more than one of the teenagers talking to Julien. She wondered if he would remain as excited once he saw the chaos awaiting outside.

Presently, Father Paul joined them on his own horse with his trademark serene smile. Before he set out from the gate though, the Cleric took a brief moment to confer benedictions upon several villagers who in turn wished him well with profuse tears. Assurances of his imminent return to Wiltshire placated the anxieties of many.

"Princess Leona, we are honored that you could spend the night with us, however brief it may have been," said Elder Remy, who had at last concluded his sojourn with his grandson. "I shall pray for your safety on your journey to Nantine. May the Light be with you on your endeavors for this kingdom!"

"Good sir, you have my sincerest gratitude for the hospitality you have shown us," Leona replied. "Wait for us for just a while longer! The army of Elbion will soon root out this foul cult from this land and restore order and peace you have desired for long! Of this, I swear by my honor as the future queen of Elbion!"

"We shall await your return with faith and hope."

With a final farewell, Leona and her men rode away into the forest once more to resume their journey. Julien led from the front to guide the rest onto trails familiar to him, though he frequently turned to look back towards Wiltshire. Was he feeling the same pang of fear that over took her when she left Sossone? At least, he could come back here with a hope that everyone he loved would remain alive and well.

The Princess cast a final look behind her before the thickets hid her view completely. Far behind Leona, the villagers remained where they were, waving in silent and weary hope. At a distance, the men and women of the forest looked so wretched and vulnerable, just like sheep that had realized the loss of their shepherd. Peace they had known for the longest time was no longer with them, replaced by fear of the unknown future. And for all her inspiring words, their hopes in her venture and success were thin at best; even Leona herself wasn't quite sure what she was doing just yet. Were those villagers as that Rionist disciple had said—lost and damned? Or was it the cultists and their misguided followers who are ultimately lost and damned? And who could say that damnation wasn't hanging over her and her loyal men heading off into a difficult struggle for the kingdom's future?

Try as she might, Leona did not know how to answer the question.

* * *

**R&R! **

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